Tar Heel Dead
Page 27
Uh-oh. Clarabelle was heavy into aura, T.S. deduced. He hoped her enthusiasms would not rub off on his aunt over the weekend. Auntie Lil didn’t need anything remotely New Age in her life. A dose of Old Age would be far more appropriate. She was impossible to control as it was.
Their one tantalizing glimpse of a cheerful sitting room hurried both T.S. and Auntie Lil through the unpacking. Before long, they were ensconced in a cozy sitting room, warming themselves by a fire while they waited for other guests to arrive.
“Who else will be here? Where are the actors?” Auntie Lil looked about as if hoping a body might tumble from the cupboard.
“Unfortunately, we’ve had quite a few cancellations,” Clarabelle explained, “because of the weather. A few have already arrived, however. Technically, it’s cheating to know in advance because that’s part of the game—figuring out who’s a guest and who’s an actor. But just between us, the guests already here include two elderly sisters, Dotty and Agnes Baird; Mr. Charles Little, a retired gentleman; Donald and Marion Travers, he’s the real estate mogul; and Dr. Sussman, a well-known Park Avenue dermatologist who is napping at the moment.”
“Donald Travers?” T.S. asked, mystified. “That’s a surprise.” Travers was the last person T.S. had expected.
Clarabelle looked smug. “I know his wife. A lovely woman. He brought her here for the weekend as an anniversary gift. I better go see how they’re doing.” She scurried away so quickly that T.S. was left wondering if Clarabelle was angling for an infusion of capital into her bed-and-breakfast from the famed Donald Travers.
“There you are. Hiding from us, I see.” This booming voice was followed into the room by a woman in her early sixties who looked like a domesticated Gertrude Stein. Her nose was prominent and shaped like a fat banana, her eyes were exceedingly large and somewhat protruding, and her cheeks hung down in pronounced pouches. She bore down on T.S. as inevitably as a steamer.
“T.S. Hubbert,” he said quickly, extending his hand. It was crushed in a powerful grip.
“I’m Dotty Baird.” The large woman laughed as if this were a tremendous joke.
“Is it safe, Dotty? Can I come in?” The second voice from the hall was soft and tentative.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Dotty broadcast in reply. “They aren’t going to kill the paying guests. Of course it’s safe.” She dropped her voice and explained. “My sister Agnes has quite an imagination. She gets carried away.”
Agnes had a headful of wiry gray curls springing about in every direction. Her general air of unconscious distraction was enhanced by the too-large cardigan sagging about her shoulders. “Are you a guest or an actor?” she asked Auntie Lil excitedly. “You look a lot like a fat Lillian Gish.”
Astonishingly enough, Auntie Lil took this as a compliment. “Me?” she said in a pleased voice. “Well, actually…”
“Now, now,” Dotty interrupted. “You can’t just ask if a person is a guest. You have to figure it out or you’re cheating and you know it.”
“I know one person who is not a guest,” Agnes declared in small triumph.
“Who is that?” Auntie Lil asked politely.
“Maria Taylor. She’s going to be here this weekend.” Agnes beamed in awe. “She’s famous for having the most beautiful skin on television. I can’t wait to see it up close.”
Auntie Lil’s eyebrows raised briefly. She clearly had no earthly idea who Maria Taylor was. T.S. knew but could not admit it without also admitting that he watched soap operas. He wisely decided to keep silent.
Dotty grabbed Agnes by an elbow. “Come on, dear. We’ve got to get a jump on everyone. Let’s look for clues.” She led the way out of the sitting room, nearly bowling over Clarabelle, who had an expensive-looking couple in tow.
“May I present our honored guests for the weekend, Mr. and Mrs. Donald Travers,” Clarabelle gushed, clearly in awe of their net worth, if not their aura.
Donald Travers ignored everyone. He ambled over to a window and stared morosely at the falling snow. He was trim as only a man with access to racquetball courts and a private gym can be, with a face so completely tanned that it looked as though it had been burnished with walnut oil. Marion Travers proved more gracious than her husband and nodded at Auntie Lil as she made her way to an empty seat by the fire. She was fashionably slim but possessed a sweet face, with kind eyes and gentle features. Her hair was a becoming silver gray, and whether or not it had been treated to produce that color, the overall effect was more in keeping with her age than could be said for her husband’s suspiciously blond hue.
“We’re off to a roaring start,” T.S. whispered to Auntie Lil as he sipped his drink. “What have you gotten us into?”
Auntie Lil smacked his hand lightly. “You must admit that there are far worse places to be in the midst of a snowstorm.”
She was right. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, the bar was well stocked, and, outside, a terrible blizzard raged. T.S. snagged a chair by the fire and dozed off in hopeful anticipation of, at the very least, a decent dinner. He awoke to find the sitting room full of occupants. The weekend had begun.
A bored-looking butler lounged against one wall without even a pretense at working. He took out a pocket watch and exclaimed, “What? What’s this, I say?” in an utterly wretched British accent. Suddenly, a girl dressed as a French maid charged into the room with a tray of champagne and nearly plowed down Auntie Lil. She apologized profusely and went careening off in another direction.
T.S. removed himself to a safer spot behind the bar, but Auntie Lil dragged one of the armchairs into the middle of the room and sat down in the flow of traffic. She beamed at everyone and waited for the real action to begin.
An elderly gentleman with a head as oval and smooth as an egg grinned at Auntie Lil from the doorway. The reflection of flames danced over a backdrop of his slick pink scalp. A few tufts of white hair about the top of the ears gave evidence to earlier glory. His tie was wide and orange, with a hula dancer painted on it. He flipped it flirtatiously at Auntie Lil when she made the mistake of glancing his way.
Auntie Lil stood abruptly and joined T.S. at the bar. “Be a darling and make me a Bloody Mary, will you, Theodore? Champagne isn’t nearly quick enough.”
T.S. hid his smile and went to work. The old fellow was Charles Little, he remembered Clarabelle explaining. A retired gentleman. Well, Mr. Charles Little would just have to take a number and get in line behind the rest of Auntie Lil’s unrequited suitors. Auntie Lil was so full of life that elderly men surrounded her like beggars at a temple, hoping some of her joie de vivre might rub off.
An imperceptible humming filled the room as the weekend’s star arrived. In person, Maria Taylor was smaller than expected. But the familiar dark eyes were there, flashing in a catlike face. She had a mane of black hair, arched brows, and thin red lips. She smiled, revealing a row of tiny teeth so feral and sharp that T.S. half expected her to drop to her knees, seize his trousers in her teeth, and shake him into submission.
It would have been entirely in character for her to have done so. Maria Taylor played a vixen, as the entertainment magazines so politely put it. Every day for an hour, in living rooms across America, she schemed, plotted, lied, cheated, and killed. All the world loved to hate her, and she reveled in her image. She surveyed the assembled guests and asked in a bored voice, “What must one do to get a drink around here?”
T.S. offered his services and was roped into making a complicated concoction involving milk and three kinds of liqueur. He was soon sorry he had asked.
“Let the games begin,” Maria Taylor said, raising her frothy green drink in salute.
With impeccable timing, a thin and extraordinarily pale man appeared in the doorway. “How do you do,” he announced, with a slight bow. “My name is Dr. Ronald Sussman.”
His mannerisms were so flamboyant that, had Auntie Lil and T.S. not known he was the real thing, it would have been impossible to say whether Dr. Ronald Sussman was
a guest or an actor. His voice fluttered as if a vocal cord had snapped loose. He mixed a drink, all the while darting his eyes around the room, toting up people like prices on a cash register. He sipped his drink speculatively, then raised his eyebrows in approval as he spotted a suitable conversational partner.
Marion Travers, wife of the Wall Street millionaire and an heiress in her own right, according to all press reports, was sitting by the fire, apart from the others. Dr. Sussman pulled a stool up by her feet. “You have incredible skin,” he told her. “The skin of a goddess. I feel it’s my duty to help you protect that gift.” His enraptured expression focused on her face. “I can tell you take excellent care of your body.”
“I eat no meat or dairy products,” she said, returning to her book.
“Even the most perfect of complexions must be protected,” the dermatologist declared. He leaned closer. She shifted her leg away from him and ignored his comment. “I have a fabulous skin care system,” the doctor continued. “I developed it myself. Some of the most beautiful women in the world swear by it. Their wrinkles disappear virtually overnight.”
“I believe in inner beauty, doctor,” Marion Travers said brusquely. “I’m not ashamed of my wrinkles. God knows I’ve earned them.”
“I would be happy to give you some free samples,” Dr. Sussman persisted smoothly. “After all, someone of your social standing could do me a lot of good. Help me attract more clients.”
“It doesn’t appear to me that you need any more patients,” Mrs. Travers said. “I understand you’re responsible for Miss Taylor’s skin, and isn’t it supposed to be the most beautiful on television?” The glare she sent the actress was quite out of character, as was the alarmed look that Maria Taylor returned.
“Then you’ve heard of me,” the doctor insisted. “Perhaps some of your close friends rely on me to enhance their own inner beauty, shall we say?”
“Dr. Sussman—” Marion Travers put her book down. “I like the way I look. I have no intention of wasting three hours a day slathering overpriced oils and creams on my face. Please go away.”
“Honestly,” T.S. thought, inching toward the bar. “I’m not the only one around here who could use a drink.”
Suddenly, a young girl dressed in a shimmering green evening gown dashed into the middle of the room. Her face was contorted in fury, and she held a small pistol in her hand. She cast a murderous gaze at Maria Taylor. “I hate you, but I can’t kill you!” she screamed at the star, collapsing in a heap on the rug. The gun flew across the carpet, and the fake butler retrieved it, tossing it carelessly on top of a bookshelf. The young girl burst into enthusiastic sobs, her face buried in the folds of her green dress. T.S. wondered whether her shoulders were shaking from actual tears or from helpless laughter at how silly the guests were to watch this nonsense.
“She’s ruined him for life,” the young actress sobbed. “The only man I’ll ever love! Now he’ll never marry me!”
The assembled crowd watched the proceedings with expressions ranging from delight to suspicion. Auntie Lil looked confused, but the sisters quickly produced notebooks and feverishly scrawled information. The elderly man, Charles Little, placed his empty glass at his feet and clasped his hands, his face shining with excitement.
“I haven’t a clue as to what the little snip is talking about,” Maria Taylor said, rising majestically from her chair. But just as she started across the room, the young girl flung herself at the older actress, grabbing her around the ankles. It was a dangerous improvisation. Maria Taylor produced a hiss that could never have been faked, then unceremoniously dragged the girl toward the door. The green evening dress zigzagged across the blue rug like a trout being brought to shore.
The exit was further spoiled by the arrival of an enormous maid, who fixed the actresses with an uncomprehending stare that T.S. deeply understood. “Dinner is served,” she announced, shaking her head in amazement. “If you can tear yourselves away from all this excitement, that is.”
Despite the welcome arrival of personality in the form of the nononsense maid, dinner was a resumption of the tepid plot unfurled in the sitting room earlier. The assembled guests ate nervously, unsure if or when the plot might once again explode. All was quiet until just after the main course, when the young actress, apparently deciding that the guests’ digestive tracts had enjoyed enough of a headstart, gave a shriek and stood, swaying dramatically against her chair. She clutched her throat and screamed, “She’s poisoned me! She’s poisoned me!”
Maria Taylor rose from her chair, eyes flashing as she stared haughtily into the distance. “Rubbish.” She dismissed the girl with a wave. “Simple indigestion. I’d never be so indiscreet. I won’t listen to any more nonsense.”
“Hear! Hear!” T.S. wanted to agree, but before he could follow this impulse, Maria Taylor swept from the room and headed upstairs, leaving the girl to swoon to the floor. Unsure of the protocol, guests crowded around and stared down at the inert body. Only Donald Travers remained at his seat, staring sourly at the dessert before him.
When no one stepped forward to take the lead, Clarabelle intervened. “That’s it,” she announced loudly, clapping her hands. “Murder most foul. And, if any of you can sleep tonight, we’ll get started solving it tomorrow.”
T.S. fled to his room as soon as was decently possible, noticing with amusement that Auntie Lil gave him a wide berth. She was in no mood for a round of “I told you so’s.” He dressed carefully in his favorite silk pajamas. He’d get his revenge on Auntie Lil, he vowed, then amused himself with several possible scenarios as he lay awake in the darkness, drifting off to sleep. Before long he was oblivious to anything but a delicious dream in which he lay beneath a pristine Caribbean sky, the hot sun baking his winter-weary bones as he sipped an endless supply of rum funnies.
His fantasy was shattered by a reverberating gunshot that echoed like deep thunder through the house. Within seconds a pounding threatened to lift his door from the hinges.
“Theodore!” Auntie Lil demanded. “Open up.”
He stumbled to the doorway, groggy with sleep. “This is too much,” he protested. “They should let the guests sleep.”
“This can’t be the play,” Auntie Lil said sharply, drawing him into the hall. “I feared something like this might happen.”
“Like what?” T.S. asked. He tried a light switch. It did not work. “Was that thunder and lightning? The power is off.”
“It was murder,” she said. “Real murder. Follow me.” Doors opened as they passed, sleepy faces peeking out in bewilderment. They acquired a small parade of confused guests by the time they reached the far side of the staircase.
“What’s going on?” Auntie Lil demanded.
“The power’s out,” Clarabelle wailed from the darkness. “And I heard a gunshot. A gunshot in my own home!” She was waving a small flashlight wildly in her nervousness. In front of her, a tall figure bent down in the shadows, fiddling at the lock of a closed door.
“It’s locked,” the figure announced. It was the fluttery voice of Dr. Ronald Sussman.
“The gunshot sounded like it was right outside my room,” Clarabelle cried. “The doctor is on the other side of me, so it has to be this room.”
“Whose room is it?” Auntie Lil demanded.
“Maria Taylor’s,” Clarabelle said, her cry escalating into a wail. “She won’t answer our knocks.”
“Open up!” Dr. Sussman shouted, pounding vigorously on the door. He stepped aside. “You try it,” he ordered T.S.
T.S. took up the challenge, turning the knob, lifting and pushing, jiggling and shoving, all in vain.
“Oh, get out of the way,” the doctor ordered again, and T.S. backed off. Dr. Sussman stepped back until he was pressed against the second-floor railing, then hurled himself against the door. It flew open with a wrenching crack as the lock plate gave way. The doctor dashed through a small sitting room into the back. He returned to the hallway within seconds. “Give me your
flashlight!” he ordered Clarabelle, snatching it from her hands. “Keep everyone back,” he told T.S. and Auntie Lil. “There’s trouble. Call an ambulance. Now!”
The others shrank back and stared in horror as he shut the door in their faces.
“Call,” Auntie Lil told T.S., pushing him gently toward the steps. “Pray the phone lines are still up. And call the police at the same time.”
“What should we do?” Agnes asked, her voice breaking. “Dorothy, I’m scared.”
“Do nothing,” Auntie Lil ordered. “Stay here. I’m going in. I’ll see if the doctor needs any help. And keep this door open. The poor woman may need air. Clarabelle, stop that crying! Take charge of the crowd.”
Auntie Lil marched back into the darkness of the suite, determined not to let the doctor bully her. The smell of cordite hung heavy in the air, and it took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the deeper darkness of the inner room. Dr. Sussman was bent over the bed, gazing down at the lifeless figure of Maria Taylor. His delicate fingers probed beneath her throat, searching for a pulse.
“What are you doing here?” he asked brusquely. “This is no place for amateurs.”
“I came to see if you needed help,” Auntie Lil explained. “I can hold the flashlight for you.”
“It’s no use,” he told Auntie Lil abruptly. “She’s beyond help. Gunshot through the temple.”
Auntie Lil was not surprised. She went to work examining the room. Maria Taylor had occupied a spacious suite with windows opening onto the back lawn. Auntie Lil checked the frames for signs of forced entry. They were firmly locked from the inside with heavy old-fashioned brass half-moons. She stared into the backyard. The blizzard had stopped, and a heavy blanket of snow coated the lawn in one unending and undisturbed blanket. No footprints at all. Above, the clouds had cleared and a nearly full moon shone down, reflecting off the snow. Auntie Lil drew open the curtains, and enough moonlight entered the room to allow her to get a better look at the scene.