The Name of the Game Was Murder

by Joan Lowery Nixon

“I really don’t,” I answered, and blushed as hotly as one of Julia’s female characters. “I mean, this girl at school was talking about one of them, and she read a couple of scenes to us, and they were kind of wild, but I read some of the rest of the book, and it was boring.”

  Laura nodded vigorously. “You’re right. Julia’s novels are sleaze. They’re drivel. And the last one on television was badly cast. I was up for the part, but then someone got the idea of casting this twenty-two-year-old with absolutely no talent …”

  “More tea?” Thea asked, and held the teapot toward Laura as she said, “I’m sure you know that when Julia’s novels began making the best-seller list she set up a foundation to help support budding novelists—all in the name of an old friend.”

  “What a neat idea,” I said, and could just see myself doing something like that in Darlene’s name. Or maybe I’d put both our names on it. “I bet that made her friend happy.”

  “Thea should have said in memory of her friend,” Laura told me. “Julia’s friend wanted to be a writer and, as I heard it, wrote dozens of manuscripts, but never had enough courage to send them to a publisher.”

  “What happened to her friend?”

  Laura sighed. “Apparently, she destroyed all her manuscripts, then jumped out of a twelfth-floor window.”

  “How awful!” I said.

  “There’s no point in going into any of the arts unless you have a dedication and determination to achieve,” Laura began, then suddenly changed direction as a thought struck her. “Will Julia’s husband be here too? You know Jake, don’t you? The poor boy never was able to make it as an actor, even though he’s a very attractive man.”

  “Augustus didn’t invite him,” Thea said, and looked embarrassed as she tried to explain. “He didn’t invite Senator Maggio’s wife either. That’s United States Senator Arthur Maggio of Nevada.”

  “Has anyone else been invited?” Laura asked.

  “One more guest,” Thea answered. “Alex Chambers.”

  I’d heard the senator’s name often enough, since we lived in the same state, but I was a lot more interested in the dress designer, Alex Chambers. His clothes were high-class expensive, in tons of magazine ads, and it was a good chance that if Laura Reed was wearing designer jeans, Alex Chambers was the name on the label.

  There was silence for a moment, until Laura murmured, “I wonder if each of your other guests received the same kind of threat I did.”

  “Oh, Laura, now really,” Thea began, but Laura turned the full wattage of her green-gold eyes on Thea and said, “We’re supposed to be players in a game. I just wonder what the game is going to be.”

  Aunt Thea informed me that we would dress for dinner, so I went up to my room and put on a dress and a long string of Venetian glass beads that Darlene had given me for my birthday. I wondered why anyone who chose to live on an island would want to dress up and live in a castle with maids and butlers, when it made a lot more sense to wear shorts and go barefoot and live in an open, comfortable house where you could clean up by just sweeping the sand out the front door every morning.

  I decided that if I became a famous writer, I’d do exactly that. Of course, at the moment I didn’t know if I should try to become a writer or not. I was depending upon Augustus to tell me.

  We were all supposed to gather downstairs for cocktails at seven, and I wasn’t about to go down early all by myself, so I stood by the window and watched a swarm of dark clouds battle the sun, which struck out with shards of red and gold before it was smothered and dragged toward the sea.

  The gloom was so intense that I turned on the bedside lamp. I sat on the edge of the bed, where I could keep one eye on the clock, and pulled my journal and a pen from the top drawer of the chest. The writers’ magazines I read suggested that writers and would-be writers keep journals and write something in them every day. I had no problem with that because I like to write.

  I wrote what I had thought about the sun, but that didn’t lead anywhere, so I decided to write a description of the room I was in. Only I went even further and added some cobwebs and dust and the sound of something creeping up the stairs.

  At the loud knock on my bedroom door I screeched, threw my journal into the air, and jumped to my feet.

  “Are you all right, Miss Burns?” a muffled voice asked.

  I staggered to the door, turned the key and opened it. “I’m fine, thank you,” I told Walter. There was no way I was going to explain. He’d think I was pretty weird.

  Walter looked at me as though he thought I was pretty weird anyway and said, “The guests have gathered in the front parlor, Miss Burns. Your aunt would be pleased to have you join them.”

  I had been so interested in what I’d been writing that I’d forgotten to watch the clock. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.” I watched Walter descend the stairs before I locked the door. I hefted the big brass key in my hand, trying to decide what to do with it. My dress didn’t have a handy pocket to hold it.

  Inspiration struck, and I opened the clasp on the string of beads, ran the string through the large hole in the middle of the key, and fastened the clasp at the back of my neck. At least I’d have my key with me. I wasn’t going to leave it in the door.

  The long upstairs hallway was dim and deserted, except for me, and I hurried along, nearly running, because I had the awful feeling that someone—or something—was watching me. I practically galloped down the stairs, pausing only for a few seconds on the landing to glance at the burial urn, which, even in the shadows, seemed to glow.

  “Listen, whoever you are,” I whispered, “my name is Samantha Burns, and I’m an innocent bystander. I had nothing to do with your urn or your ashes, so if the scary feeling in this house is coming from you, please … leave me alone!”

  I didn’t wait for an answer. I certainly didn’t want one! I just ran down the rest of the stairs and joined the lights and noise in the front parlor.

  The room was festive with dozens and dozens of glowing candles and bowls of bright summer flowers. I began to relax and enjoy myself, especially after Aunt Thea—comfortably soft and gray in a cashmere knit dress the same shade as her hair—took me by the hand and introduced me to Senator Maggio, Alex Chambers, Buck Thompson, and Julia Bryant. I was in famous company!

  Each of the guests smiled brilliantly in my direction and told me they were pleased, quite pleased, very pleased, or terribly pleased to meet me. Julia Bryant did remark on my necklace. “How exciting and unusual! That darling antique key looks so authentic and—hmmm—somehow familiar. Wherever did you find it? Neiman’s?”

  “No, in my door,” I said, “and I don’t really think it’s an antique, because doesn’t something have to be one hundred years old before it’s called an antique?” Trying to make polite conversation, I continued. “One of my mother’s friends has an antiques store, and she finds some of the most unbelievable things in …”

  I stopped talking because they hadn’t been listening and had gone back to their conversations. I even lost Aunt Thea as Julia put an arm around her shoulders, drew her into the semicircle she’d created with Alex and Laura, and said, “Thea, you must hear about the fantastic charity ball that our dear, generous Alex is underwriting.”

  I wasn’t interested in Alex Chambers’s charity ball, so I wandered away from the groups and stood alone, watching them. People-watching is good practice for anyone who wants to be a writer, according to my writers’ magazines.

  Buck Thompson’s face was familiar. It would be to anyone who watched a pro football game on television. He was huge and beefy, his face tinged dark red like a medium rare steak. His hair was brown, thick, and unruly. It was Buck’s own hair, not a toupee, so I’d have to tell Dad his guess was wrong. Buck’s movements were overlarge and expansive. As he spoke with Senator Maggio, Buck just missed knocking a flower arrangement off a nearby table.

  I’d seen Senator Maggio’s face in the newspapers. Because he was round and bald I never thought he looked like a s
enator ought to look—especially one who’s being considered as a possible presidential candidate. But he was well groomed. He wore a dark blue suit made out of some silky fabric, and he carried his head high. I wondered if he’d ever had a P.E. teacher like Mrs. Tribble in ninth grade, who kept saying, “For good posture, pretend there’s a string at the top of your head, girls, and it’s pulling, pulling, pulling you upward.”

  A laugh tinkled like broken glass, and I turned toward the sound. Laura, in a long, plain gown of deep blue silk, her hair brushed out in a golden glow, looked softer, younger, and prettier in the candlelight. Again she laughed, but the brittle sound told me that she was every bit as wary and nervous as she had been earlier.

  Julia had dressed like a twenty-year-old model in kelly green satin, with a skirt hem high above her knees and a low-scooped neckline. Her hair was dyed red, and she wore layers of makeup. If Darlene were here, she’d agree with me that it didn’t help Julia Bryant to try to look young. She had to be at least fifty. “No. What you heard was wrong. I’m just an old-fashioned girl,” she was saying. “I’m not the least bit mechanical-minded and hate having to use computers.”

  Alex Chambers smiled from one woman to the other. “You should try computerizing designs,” he said. He was tall and slender, with wisps of dark hair and large brown eyes which blinked a lot when he wasn’t squinting. I bet he wore glasses when no one was around. He had on tight slacks with a twisted rope holding them up, instead of a belt, and a silk shirt the color of whipped cream. The shirt was buttoned only halfway up, but the opening was filled with a knotted, bright, multicolored scarf.

  People-watching was interesting for only so long. I wandered over to a large round table in a nearby corner, which was cluttered with dozens of photographs. In each of them Augustus Trevor—mostly young or middle-aged—was buddy-buddy with someone who looked important and official. I recognized Prince Rainier of Monaco and the Shah of Iran, but the others were unfamiliar.

  As I picked up an ornate silver frame, Mrs. Engstrom appeared beside me. She carried a small tray of canapes, but she seemed more interested in the photo in my hand. “That’s Mr. Trevor with the late King George the Sixth of England,” she said. With her free hand she pointed to one photo after another. “That’s King Juan Carlos of Spain, the late king Gustav Adolph of Sweden, King Fahd of Saudi Arabia, the late king Frederick the Ninth of Denmark …”

  “They’re all royalty?” I asked.

  “All of them,” she said. “In fact, Mr. Trevor calls this ‘the Kings’ Corner.’ ” Mrs. Engstrom’s mouth had a strange twist to it, as though she thought this was putting things on a little too much.

  As Mrs. Engstrom moved on to pass the canapes to the other guests, Lucy came into the room with a tray of assorted drinks and handed me a glass of ginger ale.

  “Thanks,” I said. Eager for someone to talk to, I asked, “Where’s Mr. Trevor?”

  “He’ll be along,” she said quietly, and glanced back at the open doorway. “He likes to come in after everybody else has been standing around waiting for him.”

  I wanted to ask more about Augustus Trevor, but Lucy left, delivering drinks to the other guests. Walter was busy too, so I was trying to decide whether to stand by myself, looking stupid, or stand with one of the groups, looking stupid, when Augustus Trevor entered the parlor. Conversations stopped in midsentence as we all turned toward him. In the silence a gust of wind suddenly rattled the windows, and I wasn’t the only one who jumped.

  Augustus looked like a character in one of the old movies Mom and Dad like to rent. He was casually dressed in a dark red velvet jacket with a belt that tied around his pudgy middle. Augustus also wore dark slacks and loafers without socks, and smiled charmingly at his guests. “How delighted I am that all of you could come,” he said, and made a little bow. “Welcome to our humble home.”

  Laura gave a sigh, as though she’d begun breathing again, and Senator Maggio cleared his throat. Julia was the first to come forward. She clutched Augustus’s shoulders and blew smacky kisses near both ears.

  “You darling man, I’ve been so excited. What is this wonderful imaginative game you’ve thought up for us?”

  I saw Buck and the senator glance knowingly at each other, so that answered one question. Each of these guests had received the same kind of invitation. Threat, Laura had called it.

  Augustus chuckled and draped an arm around Julia’s shoulders. “All will be explained when the game commences,” he said, and went through the room greeting the other guests with the warmth of a gracious host. I could see what Aunt Thea meant when she had said Augustus could be charming when he wanted to be.

  Augustus even had a smile for me, which made me instantly hopeful. When the weekend was over and his guests had left, he’d offer to read my stories and critique them. I knew he would.

  But there was something even more pressing I wanted to ask him. “Tell me about the ghost,” I said.

  He stepped back, and his eyes bugged out, but he didn’t answer, so I said, “You know, the ghost in the haunted burial urn. Isn’t there some kind of legend?”

  Augustus’s eyes narrowed. He hunched forward and grabbed my shoulders as he growled in my right ear, “There’s not only a legend, it also has a curse with it. It’s as simple as this: Stay away from that urn or there will be nothing left of you.”

  “That’s not a very nice legend,” I mumbled, and squirmed out of his grip.

  “It’s not a very nice ghost,” he snapped, and hobbled over to talk to the senator.

  What a crab! His charm didn’t last long, as far as I was concerned. I felt sorry for the ghost and hoped he’d give Augustus Trevor a bad time.

  The dinner was interesting, since I was never quite sure what had been served. There were purple and yellow crunchy things in my salad—things that aren’t too common in Elko, Nevada—and the thin slices of meat rested in some kind of creamy sauce with a red design drizzled around the edges. There were rows of forks at the left and one above the plate, but I stopped trying to figure out the silverware and menu so I could listen to the celebrities and what they had to say.

  The earlier mood of caution and suspicion had faded, and everyone talked and laughed a lot. Senator Maggio and Buck, who sat across the table from each other, compared notes about bloopers they’d made in high school football, and somehow the senator worked the conversation around to grandchildren and brought out some pictures of two fluffy-dressed little toddlers. He beamed when he talked about the little girls, but since Thea seemed to be the only one interested in them, his grandfatherly bragging didn’t have much of a chance.

  Julia, who was seated next to the senator, sparkled as she discussed book tours and confessed to sneaking under a fence to get away from a pair of excited fans. Laura, on my right, tried to top Julia’s stories by telling us about some of her harrowing experiences on movie sets.

  It was fascinating to me to see some of the celebrity glow peel away like banana skins, giving a glimpse of real people inside; and I wondered if these people often hid inside protective skins so no one could guess their thoughts and feelings. I was just a beginner at this people-watching business, but it was obvious to me that Augustus was the only one who was any good at being famous.

  Julia, the author, was like an actress playing the role of one of her sophisticated fictional heroines, and yet at times she looked unsure of herself, and I saw her watch the others questioningly, as though she wasn’t quite sure they were taking her seriously. Buck, who sat at my left, was just as nervous—maybe even more ill at ease. He grabbed a spoon to finish off the sauce, then dropped it and turned red when he saw me watching him. And now I knew what the expression in Laura’s green-gold eyes reminded me of: our neighbor’s dog’s puppies who wiggled and yipped and looked up with huge, begging eyes at everyone who came in sight, as though they were saying, “Love me. Oh, please, love me!”

  Senator Maggio, no longer a doting grandfather, had become controlled and polished again;
and Alex never dropped his smug conceit. Both of them were safe inside their banana skins, and I wondered what it would take to make them come out.

  It had begun to rain, not a soft rain or even a steadily tapping rain. It came in bursts with the wind, whipping against the window like small stones, and I was glad none of us had to go outside in that storm.

  We had just polished off a tart filled with fresh mixed berries and soft vanilla custard, when Augustus’s voice boomed out. “Please give me your attention, my friends. I have an important announcement to make.”

  FOUR

  Buck’s water goblet went over, and water sloshed on the table as he grabbed for it. Julia giggled nervously, and Laura sucked in her breath. We all waited quietly as Augustus resettled himself in his chair before he continued.

  “As you are all well aware,” Augustus continued, “I am a novelist. I have never been interested in writing nonfiction.” He paused and smiled. “Until a little over a year ago.”

  As we waited, none of us knowing what we were supposed to say, Augustus chuckled. “For the past thirty years,” he told us, “I have been thoroughly involved in high society’s self-centeredness and hypocrisy. It suited my purposes, and occasionally it provided characters and ideas for my stories.”

  “Oh, my, I knew it. Prince Rainier,” Laura murmured. “Was he the basis for—”

  Augustus leaned forward with a scowl. “I have not finished speaking,” he thundered, and Laura cringed against the back of her chair.

  Augustus was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again it was with a smile. “My current manuscript is not another novel. It is a book in which I intend to make public certain shocking behind-the-scenes behavior of a great many very important people.”

  Julia stiffened, and it was obvious that she couldn’t keep silent, no matter how offended Augustus might be. “Are you telling us that we’re included?” she asked.

  Augustus grinned nastily. “Yes and no,” he said.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Buck demanded.