Who'll Kill Agnes?

by Lea Chan

Kevin spoke up, “Ah, Marcel, le gran chef, don’t mind Dad. He’s okay. Uh, the dinnair smells delish.”

  “Mercy, señor.”

  This response caused Kevin, Lester, and even Penny and Audrey to grab their wine glasses and sip rapidly to prevent themselves from erupting into uncontrolled laughter. Thanks to Kevin and Mark’s act, Penny and Audrey had seemingly recovered from their doldrums.

  Bernie and Agnes looked perplexed, both of them assuming that Mark-Marcel’s French was correct and nothing to laugh at. Of course Bernie knew that Mark was putting on an act but she didn’t know that his French was fake.

  “Really,” remonstrated Agnes, “we must show Marcel our greatest respect and gratitude.”

  “Oh, Mom, we are, we are,” said Kevin patting her arm.

  Mollified by her son’s affection, she turned her attention back to Mark who was bringing in the main entrée, a large silver platter containing the steaming pot roast and vegetables.

  “Oh, how divine!” she exclaimed. “Le potty roasty and the veggies. It does smell delicious.”

  Mark deposited the platter in front of Lester who began carving and serving. He quickly returned with the gravy sauce.

  Soon the Henley House occupants were indulging in Mark’s latest culinary accomplishment. The compliments poured upon him whenever he entered the room to replenish their water or wine.

  “Oooh,” cooed Agnes, “I love the way the French cook their meat in wine. What kind is this, Marcel?”

  “Oh, so sorry Muh-dom, but that ees state secret. I cannot divulge. But I am so glad you like.” Mark never used the Henley wine in his cooking. Instead he hoarded it in his quarters for after hours use. He spent many nights at home with his father, a recent widower, and shared the Henley wine with him. And if soda pop as a substitute fooled the Henleys, then he felt he had it made, as a fake French chef, at least. Agnes, of course, had no knowledge of Mark’s double life.

  After dinner Kevin and Bernie began to help Mark clear the table, much to Agnes’ chagrin.

  “Kevin,” she said pulling him aside, “must I remind you every night that I pay Marcel well to do his job? He is our servant and a foreign one, after all. There is no reason for you to help him.”

  “Okay, Mom, I’ll remember from now on.” Following his mother out of the dining room, he motioned Bernie to do likewise, then winked at Mark who good-naturedly waved back.

  The rest of the evening proved uneventful with the household members spending their time quietly in the library, a room that had remained much the same as it had been in Hilda’s time. Although the furniture was old, the two genuine leather sofas and four matching easy chairs had worn well over the years. The mahogany bar stood in one of the corners and Lester saw to it that it was well-stocked, always convincing Agnes that a prominent family must have a little bit of everything on hand since one never knew what dignitary might come for a visit. A mahogany desk sat by the front window with a grandfather clock behind it. The walls were lined with bookshelves full of Aunt Hilda’s ancient tomes. The east window looked out on the pool area. End tables with lamps were situated at random around the chairs and sofas. The room was a comfortable and popular meeting place for the entire household.

  From the shelves, Penny plucked another Agatha Christie, Murder After Hours, and she smiled whimsically at the title. She thought how incongruous it was that Agnes considered reading mystery novels a sign of culture and well-bred education, especially since she didn’t read them herself. Penny was grateful, however, to Miss Hilda Briar for having collected them. Agatha Christie had provided Penny with many an hour of escapism from the monotony of Henley House.

  Bernie yanked Death on the Nile from its perch but only half-heartedly glanced at it. Audrey worked a crossword puzzle while Kevin and Lester played dominoes. Agnes sipped a brandy as she watched a tabloid news show and occasionally observed her family, approving their activities. A warm glow spread through her as she enjoyed her wonderful life.

  Penny retired early to her room but being restless couldn’t sleep. She paced back and forth on the old carpet. She grimaced as she remembered the first time that Agnes had shown her to this room. When Penny had seen how threadbare the carpet was when she moved in years ago, Agnes had told her that the carpet was fine and that there was no reason to replace it and so it stayed. Hilda Briar had inherited many family heirlooms and had furnished the house with them. The bedroom furniture was heavy and ponderous but comfortable enough. Upon moving into the room Penny immediately asked to have the old mattresses thrown away and new ones substituted. Agnes had at first insisted that Penny keep things as they were but even she could see how old and lumpy the mattresses were and therefore reluctantly complied with the request. Penny also wanted to replace the dark, flowered wallpaper with a lighter lavender print but in this Agnes remained firm. The old wallpaper would show the world how historical the mansion was in case she should ever want to open it to the public, a paying public, a few days each month.

  Over the years Penny became accustomed to the dark room with the dark, heavy furnishings. The mahogany four-poster bed that stood very high off the floor, especially with the modern mattress and box springs, now seemed very comfortable to her, as did the other furnishings. The room also contained a mirrored dressing table with a matching chair, a mahogany desk, and an easy chair with cushions so deep that Penny almost disappeared into their depths whenever she sat down. Eventually the room became Penny’s private refuge although nothing of her own tastes or personality was evident. She even left the old pictures of dark, brooding landscapes on the wall.

  Now, however, as she paced back and forth, Penny’s thoughts circled in maddening confusion, preventing her from finding any peace at all in her little haven.

  “Oh, that Lester! Is he really serious? Does he actually think one of us will kill her? What if he had drawn the X? Would he do it? Or was this just an elaborate joke on his part? What if Audrey or Bernie had drawn the X? Do they all hate Agnes that much? Yes, certainly Audrey and I do. Agnes ruined our lives if Audrey was right about things and she must have been. But Lester and Bernie? Bernie hasn’t been here long enough and she’s tough. So far she has stood up to Agnes but, as Audrey says, Agnes has ways of destroying people. And, there’s no way to know she’s doing it until it’s been done. But Bernie doesn’t know that. Not yet anyway. Lester obviously hates Agnes. She has robbed him of his dignity. He lives here in the lap of luxury as long as he tows the line. Of course, he does it for Kevin’s sake but would life be better if Agnes died and Lester inherited? Could I get my life back together at this late date? Oh, what am I thinking? I drew the X so Agnes won’t die. How could I kill someone? Agatha Christie loved poisons but I don’t know the first thing about something like that.”

  Finally, almost exhausted from the pacing and the worrying, she lay in her bed wishing those fears would dissipate. At last Penny fell asleep with not only disjointed thoughts but also with conflicting emotions. She was actually contemplating ways to commit murder and those thoughts terrified her.

  Next door, Audrey stood by the window in her room, a room furnished very much like Penny’s, gazing out over the darkened grounds of Henley House, not really observing the moonlight dancing on the pool or the ominous shadows of the gardens beyond. Her mind dwelled in a more surrealist realm.

  “At least half of this should be mine. Life would be better if Agnes were gone. Much better, of course, for Lester than the rest of us. How clever of him to have us draw for an X. Does he really expect one of us to do it? Or was he just playing a parlor game to ease the tension and boredom of our lives? I wonder what is in Agnes’ will. Surely she left ample provisions for Kevin, but Les would be the primary beneficiary. And if something happened to Agnes then Les would make Kevin his heir. Or did Agnes even have a will? Has she ever contemplated her own mortality? After all, she considers herself a goddess to be worshipped by all.” Audrey laughed out loud at such an absurd thought.

  “But Les would inheri
t, no matter what. Therefore, he, Kevin, and Bernie have nothing to lose. If Agnes made a will, did she leave me anything? She cheated me thirty years ago. Has Agnes changed at all since then?”

  Looking upwards to the ceiling and beyond, Audrey entreated her beloved aunt, “Oh, Aunt Hilda, what did Agnes do to make you disinherit me? I know you loved me. Would my life be better if Agnes died? Would Les give me at least a portion of what should be mine? And if he didn’t, what would happen then?”

  Her mind jolted back to an excruciating fact. She had drawn the X, parlor game or not, and she more than anyone, probably even more than Les, wanted Agnes out of their lives but could she actually murder her own sister?

  After Kevin had fallen asleep, Bernie took a long, hot shower. “Thank heaven I drew that silly X. Kill Agnes? Damn, what a laugh! But could I get what I wanted that way? And get away with it? Living here is divine.”

  The hot water cascaded down her slight figure as she remembered cold showers in her family’s trailer where hot water was at a premium with her large family. She trembled as she recalled her home life with her abusive father, alcoholic mother, squabbling younger siblings, and the annoying police showing up every time her father got out of control. Living with Agnes was a piece of cake compared to all that and there were things she wanted from the old biddy.

  “Could I get them if she was dead? After all, old Lester likes me. Things would sure be different around here. At least it’s up to me to kill her or not. I wonder why the others hate her so much. If I did it, will they really back me up? Give me that alibi? Like Lester said, I am a Tucker. How could I do it? Shoot her? Where would I get the gun? Stab her? Agnes is bigger than I am. Of course that never bothered my daddy. He’s stabbed plenty of men bigger than himself.”

  She stepped out of the shower and toweled herself off. She still couldn’t believe how many rooms that she and Kevin had to themselves in their suite. The bedroom ran along the front of the house on the second floor but each of them had a private dressing room and bath, one on each side of the bedroom. Her whole family had had to use one tiny bathroom in the trailer. The Henley lifestyle had amazed and bedazzled her. She smiled as she remembered how her mother had warned her about upsetting the applecart and getting thrown out by Agnes Henley, not that Kevin would ever let that happen.

  She walked into the master suite still nude, climbed into bed, and snuggled next to Kevin. “Hell, why worry about it?” she thought to herself. “If I can think of a way to do it and not get caught, well, why not? No matter what, I got it made here. A dead Agnes or a live Agnes? Do I care?”

  She fell asleep, hugging Kevin, the son of her potential victim, and unlike Penny and Audrey, not disturbed by any moral dilemmas.

  Lester lay in his bed in his rooms on the third floor, a suite that took up almost one half of the floor while Agnes naturally had the larger suite. Although his furnishings were sparse compared to those in the other suites, he lived in comfort. The back staircase came up from the garage and opened to the door of his suite. Agnes had thought it appropriate that he should be the one to have access to the garage. She never considered that he might use the staircase as a getaway route.

  But tonight, escaping to another sanctuary wasn’t on his mind. He was beside himself with anticipation. Would any of them take him seriously? Or all of them? Would one actually try to do it? And succeed?

  “What was it that Penny had said? The Orient Express? Maybe each one will get up in the middle of the night and stab Agnes, not knowing that the others were doing likewise. But if each one did try to kill her, would they each use the same method? Stabbing would be messy, and a full-scale investigation would enfold. But hell, I told them to make it look like an accident. So, maybe they’ll each try to smother her. Agnes locks her door, but it’s an old lock and easy to jiggle open. And the way she snores, she’d never hear anything.”

  Lester giggled himself to sleep dreaming of riches to come with his wife dead and buried.

  Agnes was neither stabbed nor smothered during the night. She was alive and well the next morning and, as she arose, oblivious to any malevolent thoughts that might dwell in the minds of her family, she began a secret, private, gratifying ritual. When she and Lester moved to the third floor, she discovered a “hidey hole” in the floor of her bedroom. In the hole, a long gone maid had hidden little treasures that she had probably stolen from her employers. Agnes purchased a small safe and fitted it into the hole. There she kept her most private possessions and papers. Every morning she would pull back her carpet, open the safe, and lift out Aunt Hilda’s priceless, rare emerald collection, which had been purchased in Europe over a hundred years ago by her shipping magnate ancestor. Agnes would sit on a purple velveteen cushion and caress each piece lovingly.

  This morning she was particularly absorbed in admiring the necklace, an elaborate piece of jewelry that combined large emeralds with small diamonds. As she rubbed the necklace dreamily across her cheek, she thought she heard her door creak. As she threw the necklace recklessly into the safe, she jerked around and called out, “Lester, is that you? How dare you open my door without knocking!”

  Shaking, she jumped up, ran to the door, opened it, and peered into the small, empty hallway. She crossed to Lester’s room and pounded on the door. There was no answer. She pushed it open and went in.

  “Lester, are you here?”

  “What the hell?” he said, stepping out of his bathroom with shaving cream on his face.

  “Did you just now try to open my door?” she asked angrily.

  “No, I did not. I’m shaving. Why? Did something happen?”

  “No, no I guess not. I thought I heard something.”

  Disconsolate, she returned to her room. “Was I imagining noises that weren’t there? This is an old house, and old houses creak from time to time. Did I lock my door last night? Nobody, but nobody, especially Audrey, must ever find out about my jewelry. She has no right to it and there’s no reason for her to know about it.”

  Lester remained standing in the bathroom doorway. Had one of the women tried to do something then lost her nerve at the last moment? But damn stupid to try in the morning when Agnes was up. Still, this was good, this was promising.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Monday, June 3rd

  Expecting Agnes to arrive for breakfast with her usual eight o’clock punctuality, Mark had homemade, deep-fried cake doughnuts rolled in cinnamon sugar waiting for her. The others would drift down slowly, one at a time, during the course of the morning, nibble at whatever pastry or goodie that Mark had set out, and drink juice and coffee. Except for Bernie, they didn’t eat as heartily as did Agnes, at least not for breakfast. Lester was strictly a coffee man not caring to eat in the morning. Audrey and Penny nibbled while Bernie would eat everything that was left over. Between her and Agnes the pastries disappeared. Agnes was the only one who wanted something else with the pastries, usually an egg dish.

  Upon arrival at Henley House, Mark soon learned the morning and lunch eating habits of the residents and adjusted his menus to suit everyone, including himself. He arose early each day and made breakfast pastries or similar sweet concoctions, a different one for each day of the week. Cake doughnuts were served on Monday mornings, French toast and maple syrup followed on Tuesday, pancake rolls filled with melted butter and brown sugar were Wednesday’s fare, fruit strudel on Thursdays, cinnamon rolls for Friday, fried fruit pies on Saturday, and Sundays were devoted to gigantic blueberry muffins dripping with melted butter. The recipes had been handed down for generations from his mother’s family and were the only ones that he did not tamper with. He thoroughly enjoyed his mornings in the large, well-equipped kitchen, concocting sugary cholesterol-filled goodies, which were probably clogging the arteries of the inhabitants of Henley House, a notion that didn’t bother him at all.

  “Ah, Marcel,” drooled Agnes as she entered the small breakfast nook next to the kitchen, “the doughnuts smell divine.”

  “Tank-you,
muh-dom,” he replied as he helped her sit down then poured her a cup of coffee. “What else would you like this morning?”

  “I think perhaps a cheese omelet.”

  “Very good, muh-dom,” he said as he retreated to the kitchen to whip up a speedy omelet.

  Agnes sipped her coffee and gobbled one of the doughnuts. Mark soon returned with the requested omelet and a small glass of orange juice.

  “Oh, exquisite, exquisite,” she gushed.

  While Agnes ate, Mark set out a breakfast buffet for the rest of the family on a side board in the breakfast nook: the doughnuts, milk and juice cartons in ice buckets, the coffee maker ever ready with hot coffee, and a bowl of fruit. He stood back, admired his cookery, re-entered the kitchen and began planning an elaborate salad buffet because Agnes expected guests for lunch.

  Since Agnes was the only one who could be depended upon to eat lunch at home, Mark had soon discovered that the easiest way to satisfy everyone was to set out soup and sandwiches, made from leftovers of the previous night’s dinner, unless Agnes instructed otherwise. If the others wanted to eat at home, fine, if not, then no harm was done. The rest of his day was spent planning and preparing dinner. The job was relatively easy, even fun and creative, and, best of all, Agnes paid a ridiculous sum for the prestige of employing an “authentic” French chef. Just how long the job would last depended in part on how long Agnes could be fooled. What her reaction would be if she did find out didn’t worry Mark. At any rate, Kevin had said that he would handle that eventuality.

  Around ten o’clock, Bernie wandered into the empty breakfast nook, poured herself a cup of coffee, adding great dollops of real cream and spoonful after spoonful of sugar, and picked up a couple of doughnuts. Armed with sugar, caffeine, and cholesterol she slowly made her way outside to the patio where Audrey was reclining in the early summer sunshine, enjoying a hot mug of black coffee.