The Name of the Game Was Murder

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  Mom sighed and said, “I suppose you could call Thea and ask if she’d want you to come for a visit. If it wouldn’t be convenient, I’m sure she’d be honest enough to say so.”

  I made the call and started to talk to Aunt Thea about all sort of polite nothing stuff, but I couldn’t stand waiting to ask my question and get the answer, so I blurted out, “Aunt Thea, could I come and visit you for two weeks?”

  For a few seconds there was only silence. My face grew hot, and my hands began to sweat, but finally Thea said, “Of course you can visit us, Samantha. I’d love to have you as a guest.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I shouted, and Mom took the phone away from me to chat with Thea and talk about travel arrangements.

  Three weeks later Aunt Thea met me at the Los Angeles airport, and we took a taxi to the harbor. We were ushered aboard Augustus Trevor’s launch by a couple of crew members and were soon on our way to Catalina Island. His own launch! Wow!

  I said something about being eager to see Avalon and the beach, but Thea looked surprised. “Oh, Samantha, I’m sorry,” she said. “Our home is on the opposite side of the island, past the Isthmus, and rather remote from the Avalon area, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I don’t mind hiking it.”

  She shook her head softly. Everything about Thea was soft, from her pale gray-blond hair, through her light un-tanned skin, to her eyes that looked like reflections of the washed-out blue of the sky. “We’re not connected to the road that runs through the island,” she said. “Our only transportation is by boat.” Thea gently brushed back a strand of hair that had blown across my eyes and smiled. “Don’t look so disappointed, Samantha. We’ll see that you get a glimpse of Avalon. We’ll take you there in the launch.”

  Just getting a glimpse of Avalon wasn’t quite the same as lying on the beach in my new blue bikini, hoping the lifeguard would notice it was the exact same shade of blue as my eyes. My best friend, Darlene Barkholter, spent two weeks on Santa Catalina Island a year ago, and I heard plenty about the lifeguards at Avalon, who were real hunks. I can’t say I hadn’t given the lifeguards some thought.

  Darlene and I have always been interested in the same things, from the time we met in third grade. We shared a tree house, wrote countless letters to each other in code all the way through fifth grade, and joined the same clubs in junior high and high school; so I would have shared Darlene’s appreciation of the Avalon lifeguards. However, I reminded myself that the reason for my trip wasn’t to enjoy watching lifeguards. I had a much more important, literary purpose, so I assured Thea that I didn’t mind missing Avalon at all.

  She began telling me about something called the Santa Catalina Island Conservancy, which was a foundation formed to preserve the natural resources of the island, and how someday Augustus’s 1920s island house would belong to the foundation, but I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention. I relaxed and looked out at the deep blue water and the sky in which clumps of clouds were beginning to gather, their edges darkening like watercolors that had run together. I let the ocean spray sting my face, and I thought about how someday I’d love to have an island home and a boat just like this one. Maybe, someday after I became a famous writer.

  Catalina is just twenty miles off the coast of California, so it didn’t take us long to arrive. We swung north, went around the far tip of the island, and docked behind a motorboat at a short, covered pier in a small, narrow cove. One of the crew from the launch carried my suitcase and backpack up a steep, winding stairway to the house, while Thea and I followed.

  What a house! It was so weird that I wondered for just an instant if I’d wandered onto the set of a Halloween horror movie. Spread out, with corridors rambling in all directions, this ugly stone castle sat alone on a scrubby hill covered with a thick tangle of sage and short golden-brown grasses under wind-twisted oak trees. Beyond were higher hills, blurred purple-blue with mists, and from where we stood we had a picture-postcard view of the sea.

  Thea had led me to a large bedroom and said she’d leave me to unpack. I guess I should have stayed there and waited for her, but the moment she had left I went downstairs in search of the man I was so eager to meet, the famous author Augustus Trevor.

  That had been a big mistake.

  Now, as I walked down the staircase to the landing, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, I took my time, listening intently for the sound of another human being; but the house was silent. For the first time I paid attention to my surroundings. From my vantage point on the landing I could look down on the immense entry hall and get a good view of part of the living room as well, and I was amazed to see that the house was cluttered with museum-like stuff. Besides all the heavily framed paintings on the walls, there were wood carvings of animals and people, all kinds of big and little statues (some of them pretty weird), glazed pottery bowls, china plates, and even a crystal bear which sat on a table near a window. Souvenirs from their travels? Gifts from royalty?

  As I turned away from the railing my attention was caught by a pedestal which was tucked into the deep angle of the landing. A burnished gold vase with a rounded lid stood on the pedestal, and I stepped closer to examine it. The vase was close to two feet high and about ten inches in diameter, with a wide base. It was graceful and curved and heavily ornamented with designs and markings that looked like scrunched-up little faces.

  I reached out my hand to touch the lid, but someone spoke close to my ear, startling me. I jumped and the vase wobbled, but I caught it in time.

  “Are you looking for something, miss?”

  I turned to see a tall man dressed in dark pants and a white jacket. He was staring down at me with a bland, noncommittal expression, and I’d seen enough British-made television programs on PBS to recognize immediately that he must be a butler.

  “I’m Sam,” I said. “Samantha Burns. Thea Trevor’s niece. I was just looking at this vase.”

  “That is not a vase, Miss Burns,” he said. “It is a burial urn.”

  “Oops.” I took a step away from it. “You mean somebody’s in there?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” he said. “Considering that the urn dates back quite a few centuries and has undoubtedly traveled through many hands, I would assume that by this time it is empty.”

  That was not a pleasant thought. Somebody thought his ashes would be tucked away in the urn forever, and what happened? Someone carrying the urn tripped? Opened it in a windstorm? Dropped it through an open carriage door? Gross! If my ashes had been lost so carelessly, I’d be angry enough to come back and haunt my urn.

  I took another uneasy step away from it. “Mr. uh—uh—”

  “My name is Walter,” he said.

  “Walter, that urn isn’t haunted, is it?” I asked.

  “I believe there is some sort of legend to that effect,” Walter answered, “but you will have to ask Mr. Trevor about it. I do not believe in ghosts.” He became more businesslike as he added, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Yes,” I said as I shot another uneasy glance toward the urn. “Can you tell me where my aunt is?”

  He gave a slight nod and answered, “I’ll take you to Mrs. Trevor. She is in the sun-room.”

  There was a sun-room in this house? Great! Did that mean a hot tub? An indoor pool? Things were beginning to look up. I trotted down the stairs after the butler and followed him across the entry hall toward the back of the house.

  The sun-room was formal and just as overdecorated as the rest of the house, but it did have large windows framed by sheer curtains and heavy drapes. The windows overlooked an uneven landscape of grasses, low shrubbery, and wind-twisted oaks which led steeply down to the sea. Aunt Thea was seated in a heavy wicker chair, her back to the window. Clouds had dimmed the sun, but there was enough brightness left to outline Aunt Thea with an aura of pale green light.

  As I came in she looked up and placed a delicate china teacup on the silver tray which rested on th
e low table in front of her. “Samantha dear,” she said, “I’m sorry that you met Augustus so abruptly, without warning. He can be a little frightening, if you aren’t used to him.”

  “It was my fault,” I told her. “I couldn’t wait. That is, I mean, he’s so famous, and he’s such a great writer, and I know you would have made the introduction easier.” I shrugged and added, “Dad keeps telling me I jump into things without stopping to think.”

  She smiled. “Impulsive is the word.”

  I smiled back because I really liked Aunt Thea. As I flopped into a chair I stretched out my legs and sighed. “Impulsiveness says it all. I guess that’s something I’m going to have to watch out for in my writing. There’s so much to learn.”

  Aunt Thea reached over and patted my knee. “Be patient with yourself. Becoming a published writer takes years and years of practice and experience. Do you think that Augustus had immediate success?”

  Her question caught me by surprise. “Why, yes,” I said. “He did, didn’t he? His first book won that big literary award and boom!—instant fame.”

  “His fourth book,” she said. “The first three were rejected many times over.”

  “They were?” I mumbled, and tried to absorb what she’d said, but Thea changed the subject.

  “I’m sorry, too, that Augustus moved you to the tower room. I know it’s small and unhandy, but since he’d assigned the other rooms to his guests—”

  “Please don’t apologize,” I interrupted. “The tower room is a really—uh—interesting room. I—uh—like it.”

  Thea paused a moment, accepting what we both knew was a polite fib, then picked up a teacup in one hand and a silver teapot in the other and asked, “Would you like a cup of tea, Samantha?”

  “Oh … yes, thank you,” I answered. I’d rather have had a soft drink, but I supposed tea was okay if it had a lot of sugar and lemon in it. Thea handed me a cup and saucer, and even though I was still bemused by what she had said about Augustus’s rejections, I noticed there was another cup and saucer on the tray. “Is uh—Mr.—I mean, is your husband going to join us?”

  “Why don’t you just relax and call him Augustus?” she suggested.

  “I—I don’t think I could do that.”

  Aunt Thea took a sip of tea and nodded. “You’ll soon begin to feel comfortable with him.”

  I seriously doubted that, but I didn’t have to say so, because Thea went on to explain, “The extra cup is for Laura Reed. She arrived this morning, and she’ll be down to join us at any minute.”

  “Laura Reed!” I nearly dropped my cup. “You don’t mean Laura Reed the movie star, do you?”

  “The very same,” Thea answered. “She’s one of Augustus’s guests for the weekend party he planned.”

  “He didn’t tell you about the party before I got here,” I said, but Thea just shrugged.

  “Augustus has always been able to bring home unannounced guests and know they’ll be well cared for.”

  I put down my cup and leaned forward. “Aunt Thea,” I said, “I didn’t mean to crash his party. I’m sorry if I caused any trouble.”

  She smiled as she reached out and squeezed my hand. “Don’t look so worried, Samantha. You’re not the cause of any trouble. Augustus tends to be hotheaded when things aren’t going the way he’s planned, and during the last few years the painful bouts he’s had with arthritis and gout haven’t helped his disposition. But I’m sure you’ll find that he’ll be perfectly charming while you’re here. He can be a very gracious host when he wants to be.”

  Easy for her to say. She hadn’t had him throw a temper tantrum right in her face.

  Or had she? I got the uncomfortable feeling that she wasn’t telling me the truth.

  “Hello, Thea.”

  I rose to my feet as Laura Reed—the famous movie star Laura Reed—glided into the room. Maybe I expected flashing lights and little twinkle stars and a mink coat and a sparkly sequined dress. I didn’t expect what I saw: a pretty but quiet woman who wore no makeup. Her blond hair—just a shade lighter than mine—hung straight and heavy around her face, and she was dressed in a simple white blouse and navy blue jeans.

  They had to be designer jeans, I told myself as Aunt Thea introduced us. And the blouse—she probably bought it on Rodeo Drive. After all, Laura Reed was a movie star, so she must have a ton of money, in spite of the fact that her last two movies had bombed.

  She took both my hands and looked into my eyes as she smiled shyly. Shyly? A movie star? She reminded me more of a mouse. “I’m so very pleased to meet you,” she murmured in a voice all sleepily whispery and throaty.

  “Thank you,” I answered. “I’m pleased to meet you, too.”

  I was excited at meeting Laura Reed, and one part of my mind was already thinking about what I’d tell Darlene: Laura? Oh, she was nice. Very friendly. And it’s true, her eyes really are a kind of greenish-gold.

  But another part of my mind was registering the fact that there was an odd expression in those eyes. What did they remind me of? She was looking at me, talking to me, and yet she wasn’t. I mean, I could see that her mind was somewhere else, and it must not have been a very happy place, because she was nervous. I wondered if Augustus Trevor’s weird house was having an effect on her. Burial urns, tower rooms with bars on the windows—if I opened a closet door and discovered a mummy, I wouldn’t be in the least surprised.

  Laura had seated herself, so I quickly sat down too, picked up my cup, and tried to sip as nonchalantly as Laura and Thea.

  They chatted for a few minutes, mostly about old friends and old parties. I didn’t know most of the people they were talking about, and I was a little disappointed that things weren’t turning out to be as exciting as I hoped they’d be. My attention began drifting away, but it quickly returned when Laura put down her cup and asked, “Thea, you must tell me. Why am I here?”

  Aunt Thea’s eyes widened. “Why are you here? I don’t understand, Laura. You were invited to Augustus’s weekend party, and you came.”

  Laura shook her head impatiently. “Party? I’d hardly call it a party.”

  “But Augustus said …”

  Laura Reed sighed and leaned back against the plumply cushioned sofa. “Obviously, you don’t know either.”

  “Know what?” Now it was Thea’s turn for impatience. “Laura, please explain what you mean.”

  “Very well,” Laura said. “Augustus wrote, asking me to be here. No. He didn’t ask. He told me to come. He said there would be a game in which I’d be one of the chief players. His exact words were, ‘If you don’t take part, you’ll soon regret it.’ ” Laura leaned forward, her golden eyes trained on Thea like piercing spotlights. “I came because I was afraid to ignore his threat.”

  Thea paled. “You must be mistaken, Laura,” she said. “Surely, Augustus would never threaten his friends.”

  “Friends?” Laura whispered. “I’d hardly say we were friends.”

  I thought about what Laura had told us, and I had to agree with her and not with Aunt Thea. What Augustus Trevor had written to Laura Reed sounded like a threat to me.

  THREE

  The tea party was uncomfortable, with Thea trying to be a gracious hostess, in spite of what Laura had told her, and Laura trying to be a charming guest, even though it was obvious she’d rather be anywhere else. To ease the situation they both turned to me.

  “You’re lucky to lead a normal life,” Laura said, and patted my hand. This time her smile was wistful, and her words dragged, plopping themselves down like reluctant feet. “You’ll never know what it’s like to …”

  “To be rich and famous?” I offered helpfully.

  “To be used,” she corrected. “To want to be really loved—not as a star, but as a child, hungry for affection.”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer her, but I needn’t have worried because she rambled on about the traumatic people who had affected her adult life, from parents to hairdressers. Thea and I just listened. I stop
ped being embarrassed by Laura’s revelations and began thinking that I’d have a lot of really interesting stuff to tell Darlene.

  Even though it was midafternoon, the room gradually became darker, and finally a maid in uniform came in, turned on some lights, and began picking up the empty cups. She had a round, cheerful face, and looked as if she might be only a few years older than me.

  Thea went to the window. “It looks as though it’s going to pour,” she said. “Such odd weather for August.”

  The maid stopped, tray in hand, and said, “Mrs. Trevor, the radio news said there’s going to be a storm. It’s part of a hurricane moving north from Mexico.”

  As she spoke she looked at Aunt Thea with a kind of pity and tenderness. It was obvious that she was fond of Aunt Thea, but I didn’t understand why she should pity her.

  “Thank you, Lucy,” Thea said. “I didn’t listen to the radio today. I wasn’t aware of a possible storm.”

  Radio? What about television? It dawned on me that I hadn’t seen a single TV set in this house. Two weeks without television? It was hard to imagine.

  Thea sat down again and announced, “The launch just pulled up to the dock, which means the other guests have arrived. We’ll all be snug and cozy before the storm breaks.”

  Snug and cozy in this creepy old castle? I didn’t believe it.

  Laura sat up stiffly and asked in her kind of choking, breathy way, “Who are the other guests?”

  “Augustus told me that Buck Thompson is one of them,” Thea said.

  I eagerly volunteered, “You know who Buck Thompson is, don’t you? He used to be a pro quarterback, only now he’s a sportscaster on one of the networks.” I realized that I shouldn’t have interrupted, so I quickly said, “Sorry, Aunt Thea.”

  Thea just smiled at me and continued. “And Julia Bryant will be here.”

  “Julia Bryant!” I blurted out.

  Thea raised one eyebrow and said, “I take it that you’re familiar with Julia’s books, Samantha, although I’m a little surprised that you’d like that type of novel.”