by Susan Laine
All that was pretty mundane and to be expected for a genius child’s playroom, in my opinion. What wasn’t, however, was what covered all available floor, wall, and roof space. Drawn with colored crayons, magic markers, even ballpoint pens, were scribbles of all kinds. I recognized the Greek and Latin alphabets, but the runic, esoteric, and pagan symbols, and what could only be described as numerical codes of some kind, those were beyond me. I’d have to do research on this.
“He was so gifted, you know,” Cecil continued behind me, not crossing the threshold into the room but staying where he was, studying me inspecting the room. “So young and so smart. Always knew the answer to everything put to him. We tried to redecorate here a few times, but Mo threw a fit, so we left this place alone—and him alone in here. Perhaps that was a mistake….”
I read the few English phrases on the surfaces: “U Mr. E Posh,” and “Not Shy,” although his t’s looked a lot like p’s. “What do those mean?”
Cecil glanced at the wall over my shoulder. “Oh, those. They’re the nicknames they had for each other. I never could understand them, but… kids, you know.”
I looked at him, and he explained, frowning as if he believed I should already know all this. “Mo and Haydn. The twins. They had code names for each other as kids, and those stuck. I remember them laughing like hyenas every time they called each other with them. I never saw what was so funny about them, but few outsiders can understand the bond between twins.”
I took out my iPhone and took pictures and then operated the video function and took some detailed live feed of the entire room to inspect later on my computer. “Where is Haydn now?”
Cecil harrumphed, clearly displeased with me and my investigative abilities. “Why do you think Mo was so unstable and deranged, Mr. Garrett? Haydn… he was lost when they were both thirteen. Five years ago, Haydn disappeared. Not a trace of him since. The police looked for him for ages, expecting a money angle. Kidnappers, you know. Nothing ever came of it, though. But unlike the Lindbergh baby, Haydn was never found.” Cecil shrugged. “He’s probably dead by now. Five years is a long time.”
I nodded. Five years was a damn long time. “So which one was which?”
Cecil scrunched his nose disapprovingly. The line of questioning was apparently not to his liking. “Haydn was Not Shy, Mo was the other.”
“What was Haydn like?”
“Don’t you want to ask about—oh, all right.” Cecil sighed, resigned. “Haydn was the lively one. Mo was always more withdrawn. Mo was the creative genius, while Haydn’s gifts… lay elsewhere. He was a prankster, always the joker, the one with the funny punch line, the one always laughing and making light of things. But, as you see, I cannot mention one without the other. In so many ways, they were like two peas in a pod, yet in other ways they conflicted with each other, like night and day. Without Haydn around… Mo just fell apart. Mentally, I mean. This playroom—their playroom—is evidence of that meltdown, case in point.”
I had to admit Cecil had a point. Losing a sibling was bad enough, but to lose the other half of you in the process? That was a nightmare, the emotional ramifications of which I didn’t dare to speculate on without further information. “You think that is why he committed suicide?”
Cecil pursed his lips in frustration, crossing his arms over his chest as if seeing the end of the meeting close at hand. “Well, wouldn’t you? Mo was a child when he lost his parents, and he was still a child when he lost his twin to the unknown. That kind of burden? Who knows what it did to him, to his head? That he managed to keep on going for five years—all alone and the only smart kid in his age group—it’s an achievement not even most adults could accomplish.”
“So you do believe that Mo killed himself?”
Cecil looked utterly confused. “What else could it be?” Then he let out a curious, short chuckle, filled with a modest amount of shock. “Mr. Garrett, surely you don’t think that… that he was… murdered? My God, that is just insane. More to the point, Mo was, um, not of sound mind. I find it much more likely that he, ahem, ended things himself than someone killing him. No, the whole idea is absurd.”
Murder was complicated, and apparently so was Mo Chance. Sure, he sounded like a troubled kid, but he was also the founder and owner of a multibillion-dollar toy company. When so much money was involved, foul play should never be ruled out too soon, in my honest opinion. So, absurd or not, I wasn’t convinced either way yet.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Cecil shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable and embarrassed. “I must admit to my dying shame that I had only seen him once this past week, and then only briefly as he was having breakfast as I dashed off to work. To be brutally honest, Mr. Garrett, I tended to avoid his company. He could be so, um, so sad and glum. He was my blood, my kin, yes, but I felt only the most tenuous of connections with him.” Then he stared at the floor, his discomfort coming off him in waves. “Especially since….”
“Since what?” I pressed.
Cecil closed his eyes tight and sighed, sadly this time. “Mo had nightmares. Bad ones. Seriously horrible ones. He would wake up in the middle of the night and scream in terror about monsters under his bed. Always with the monsters…. Even when Giulia calmed him down, it only worked for a while. Then he would start up again a moment later. Sometimes he would go at it all night long, unceasing, shrill.” Cecil shuddered violently. “I can still hear the cries, so loud, so sharp. Monsters…. Yes, he was a disturbed child.”
The manner of Mo’s death was still a mystery to me. I needed to get my hands on the police report and autopsy findings. And if I could see the body, that would be even better. I would have to drive up to the police station once I had concluded my business here.
Ten years ago, the Great Unveiling had revealed creatures of myth living on the same earth as humans. Before that strange phenomenon, a mysterious Veil had separated the two worlds that occupied the same time and space, but now they were permanently joined as one. The world we had thought we knew was still being reshaped by that event—and yes, monsters of all kinds did walk among us.
But had monsters, under his bed or not, caused Mo’s death?
Or had he just been a child troubled by the death of his nearest and dearest?
“Excuse me, Mr. Garrett,” Cecil said, startling me out of my reverie, and he glanced at his wristwatch. “I have a meeting with a client in half an hour. I really need to get going.” He looked around warily, frowning. “This whole wing belonged to Mo. Look at whatever you wish, but I would ask you not to move or remove anything.”
I bowed my head a bit to acknowledge his request. If he thought this was bad manners, it was no concern of mine. Clearing his throat, he harrumphed and then left the room. I was left alone in a room filled with dark, somber memories, and maybe a few ghosts to boot.
Nonetheless, I made detailed stock of all I saw. Clearly the room hadn’t been disturbed in a while, or perhaps Mo hadn’t been the cleanest person in the world. He was eighteen when he died, so… a regular guy wouldn’t bother with vacuuming or dusting.
But then again, he wasn’t any normal eighteen-year-old. Had he used this playroom only as a child, when his twin brother had still been here? It seemed plausible Mo would abandon a room that reminded him of his loss, one more in a long line. But I didn’t know him, and now all I had to get to know him was hearsay from people I didn’t trust, rooms left empty to decay long ago, and so far, precious few clues, all of them indicating the likelihood of suicide.
I hated being in the dark like this. I usually knew my clients, but these circumstances were unusual. So far I didn’t have much to go on.
I took pictures and video footage of all I saw in the playroom, deciding to start from the clues gathered here. Obviously Mo’s body hadn’t been found here, or the place would be sealed tight, probably with police officers monitoring the room and blocking my entry. The cops had no love for PIs like me, but I knew a few I cou
ld work with.
Once I was done, I headed back downstairs to find the elusive and reluctant butler.
I found Parkinson in the large kitchen. He sure kept it spick-and-span. All countertops, sinks, and stoves gleamed immaculately clean in the faint sunshine. The butler himself was in his cook’s role at the moment, it seemed, since he was busy stirring something. The delicious smells carried through the air-conditioning suggested linguine of some sort. My stomach grumbled.
Parkinson must have heard my hungry belly because he turned toward me, startled a bit. “Oh, Mr. Garrett. I didn’t see you there. Is there something I can do for you?”
I tried not to peer behind him at what was cooking and salivate. “Could I ask you some questions?”
With a distinctly displeased look, he turned back to his food preparation. “If you like.” He gave the spoon a few more swivels, then put the lid on the kettle and faced me, waiting.
“How would you describe your relationship with Mo?” I kept it simple and avoided yes-or-no answerable questions.
At first Parkinson looked like he was about snap something like “none of your business, gumshoe,” but then his shoulders sagged, and he let out a breath. “Master Mo was a… simply the warmest, kindest boy in the world. I have had many kinds of clients since I became a butler, but he made the task easy. The duty was my pleasure, to serve him, to accompany him. And he spoke to me like I was a friend instead of a mere employee.”
“Sounds nice,” I said. This jibed with my impression of the letter he had sent me.
A rueful expression crossed Parkinson’s schooled features. “Master Mo and I weren’t confidants, you understand, but he never lied to me. Sometimes I thought he might be better served learning to conceal parts of himself. He was surrounded by gold-diggers, you understand.”
“Such as…?”
Parkinson’s gaze flickered toward the hall, as if he could see through the walls into the study. But he said nothing about that. “There were only a few people in his inner circle.”
“Friends?”
Parkinson frowned, gaze dipping down. “I don’t think Master Mo had any friends.”
“Not even when he and Haydn were children?”
He glared at me, suspicion in his eyes. “Mr. Chance told you about Haydn?” I nodded. The displeased mumble he made suggested he wasn’t happy about that. “To the outside world, Master Mo appeared like such a joyous, funny person, even sociable and jovial. But in here…. He lost his parents when he was young, and then only four years later, he lost his twin brother. It is an inconceivable hardship. I felt for him, but he never asked for sympathy. It was curious how he could be so strong and yet so frail.”
“You sound like you loved him. He had that, at least, then.” I used a soft, encouraging tone, and his hopeful smile was answer enough. “What was Mo’s relationship with his uncle like?”
Parkinson’s smile faded. “Cecil is a…,” he grunted but then seemed to recall where he was, and he stood up straighter and took on a more neutral expression. Still, the slipup had told me plenty. “Mr. Chance is very private man. He’s dedicated to his work as an accountant—”
“He works for Mo’ Goodies?”
“He did, once. It didn’t work out.” Curious, I thought, and waited him out. Finally, the good butler continued, “Master Mo felt it would be better for Cecil to work for other clients. He was concerned about Cecil’s, um, career aspirations.” Or was it greed? This seemed promising. I stayed silent, anticipating more. Parkinson was the gatekeeper of family secrets as much as the front door of the manor. “I do not know the specifics,” he said, obviously sensing my inquiring mind. “But you may want to ask Mr. Lovell.”
“Luther Lovell, the chauffeur?”
“Indeed, sir. Cecil was briefly Mr. Lovell’s accountant as well.” Parkinson shifted back to the pot, stirring the linguine. “Mr. Chance is having lunch with clients,” he explained, probably at the sight of me drooling over his clean countertops. Apart from the quick, soggy sandwich I had eaten in the car on my way up here, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. And sex was draining business. “Would you like to stay for lunch, Mr. Garrett?” I saw the amusement in his eyes and played along.
“Was I that obvious? Yes, thank you. I’d love to.”
As we ate the shrimp and lemon oil linguine with hot garlic bread and freshly squeezed lemonade with ice, we talked some more.
I found out Parkinson was a wise man with a great deal of experience working for rich, powerful families. Yet, his attachment to Mo Chance was more emotional than that to any of his previous employers. Every time he referenced Master Mo, the warmth of his tone was evident.
Mo Chance might not have had a father, but he had had someone as close as. A father figure in Parkinson must have comforted Mo at least a little. Or perhaps that was just me praying he had at least known he had that bond.
“Are you privy to the contents of Mo’s will, Mr. Parkinson?” I asked as I was all but licking the plate clean. From what I had seen he was a great butler, and from what I tasted he was an awesome cook too.
“No, sir, I’m not.” Parkinson shook his head adamantly. I noticed his thick white mane never moved an inch, not a strand out of place. A consummate professional, down to the last lock of hair, apparently. “I would hazard a guess Cecil Chance inherits most everything there is, as he is the last living blood relation—as far as we know.”
“What were the circumstances of Haydn’s disappearance? Is the case still open?” I’d get the information from the cops too, but I wanted this inside man’s insight.
Parkinson shook his head again, angry this time. “Cecil had Haydn declared dead last year.”
“I thought a person had to be missing for seven years, not five, before presumed dead, let alone declared legally dead.”
Parkinson sighed. “Money, connections. Four and a half years. Haydn’s troubled past, his transgressions with the law. People who decide these things were on Cecil’s side, especially when he pleaded it would help Mo come to terms with his brother’s disappearance and find closure.”
“Troubled past?”
“Haydn had a history with the police. He had a juvenile record, sealed of course.”
“Did Mo get into trouble too?”
Parkinson looked positively shocked at the idea. “Goodness no. He was far too shy and introverted for tomfoolery. Haydn more than made up for Mo’s shortcomings in that respect.”
“So what did Haydn do?”
At that, Parkinson suddenly laughed, and from such a stick in the mud it was a curious sound, liberating and potent. I kind of liked it. “Pranks, mainly. The first judge who tried him for joyriding—Haydn drove the stolen car at a turtle’s best speed, wearing a traffic cone for a hat—found his own town car painted in rainbow colors, professing support for GLBT rights with huge letters. One of his lawyers got his water bed filled with pink foam that burst out at the seams when he lay down. Scented toilet paper wrapped around trees, water balloons dropped on people, bubble foam coming out of people’s sinks and toilets, pens with invisible ink. You know, classic practical jokes. Once he made sure his trial could not go ahead for a while because he blocked all the entryways during the night with thousands of copies of the illustrated version of the Kama Sutra. Once he even pissed off Cecil by recreating that first scene from Ghostbusters, the one with the filing cabinets opening and spilling out their contents, in Cecil’s home office. Never could figure out how he did those things. He was a clever boy, I give him that.” Parkinson chuckled again. “He got me pretty good a couple of times too. Once he glued aluminum foil over all the kitchen appliances, dishes, even the cutlery, and one other time all the foodstuff in fridge was encased in frozen Jell-O.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculous images those words evoked. “Haydn was really something, huh?”
Parkinson grew serious. “Is, Mr. Garrett. Haydn is really something.”
“You don’t think he’s dead?”
&nb
sp; Hesitating, Parkinson worried his lower lip. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure. But I don’t want to believe it.” He blinked and shook his head, as if to clear away the bad memories, and I’m sure there were plenty to choose from. “If you’re done with lunch, sir, I have to get started on the cleaning up and making dinner.”
“Yup, of course.” I carried my plate to the sink—’cause Ford had taught me common decency in the household—but Parkinson told me that was all I was required to do. As a butler, he told me, it was his responsibility to keep the kitchen and the dining room tidy, organized, and fully stocked.
“One more question, if I may.” Parkinson stopped, looked at me, and waited. “When did you last see Mo?”
“During lunch on the day he died. He came home and asked me to make him a turkey sandwich. I did as he asked, and he ate it in the kitchen, just where you were sitting a moment ago. He seemed preoccupied, and I did not attempt to converse with him.” Parkinson frowned sadly as he recalled the events, and I didn’t interrupt him. “He couldn’t finish the sandwich. He told me he was feeling under the weather.”
“What do you mean?”
Parkinson hesitated, as if trying to find the right words.
“I thought for a second he was going to throw up, and I wondered if the turkey had gone bad. I checked later, and it was fine. He was pale and sweaty, and I assumed he was nauseous since he was holding his stomach. I advised him to stay home for the rest of the day. I suggested I would make him some hot chicken soup. He laughed and told me to stop being such a mother hen.” Parkinson smiled at the memory, and the gesture lit up his face, giving him a curiously charming luster.
