by Tyler Colins
He was about to speak when “Ha, ha, ha, you and me, Little brown jug, don't I love thee!” resounded outside the thick oak door. The voice had an Earl Jones quality: deep, rich and sensuous.
“By jove, that must be dear Aunty Mat's ghost-host, Fred.” I gave my best English accent (a Liverpudlian, Manchesterian and Yorkshirish mishmash) and stood column straight, as wide awake as if I'd ingested a half-pound bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans. “Let's greet the old boy.” I scampered across the room.
“I guess we were destined to meet him sooner or later.” Adwin looked none too pleased as I reached for a brass rosette doorknob. “What's the difference between a ghost and a spirit; do you know?”
“I've heard it explained that one passes into the After Life and can come and go at will, while the other is trapped here for one reason or purpose or another.” I took a deep breath and opened the door. “But in both cases, they're pretty dead.”
The long corridor was lighted softly by four incandescent ceramic wall sconces. There was nothing to be seen except a worn runner, two cherry-finish hallway tables, a half dozen countryscapes, and a large suit of armor at the far end by a tall domed window. (The defensive covering might have belonged to a medieval knight as easily as to the host of a costume party for all anyone in the group could tell earlier that evening, but it had made for a few good zingers and chuckles.)
“Fred, you there?” I called.
Adwin perched his chin on top of my head. “Are you nuts?”
“You're not afraid of a singing ghost, are you?”
“Don't be silly. I meant: are you nuts waking up everyone?”
“Do you think we're the only ones who can hear him?”
“I – shoot. Did you see that?” It sounded as if Adwin had dropped his jaw – to the root cellar.
“If you did, I did.”
“Hey, what's going on?” Linda stepped into the hallway from the opposite room. And I thought my kitty cats were cute. Coupled with clown-sized fuzzy neon-yellow slippers, the dancing perky-eared raccoons on her knee-length nightgown beat my kitties by a mile. She held a tiny flashlight.
“Is that a light for Minnie Mouse or a weapon for Mickey?” I smirked.
“Prunella says the electricity in this place can go out like that.” She filliped.
“Of course it can. Why wouldn't it? I bet lightning and thunder streak through the night on cue, too.” Adwin peered down the corridor with a frown. “Did you see anything?”
“Like a ghost?” she grinned.
“Like Fred.”
“I thought I heard someone singing.”
“What about Rey?” I asked. “Did she hear someone, too?”
“She's out. She won't wake before ten tomorrow. That last rye and ginger knocked her off her feet.”
“I'm surprised she wasn't knocked off earlier.”
Linda and Adwin's expressions rested somewhere between amused and aghast.
“You know what I mean – who's that?”
We squinted at a shadow near the dormant knight and Linda called out, “Is that you Percival?”
“Ssh, you'll wake the dead,” I warned.
Again the expressions.
Wearing a cinnamon-brown cashmere robe over cream flannel pajamas, Percival strolled toward us as if engaging in a Sunday constitutional. “It seems that only a handful of us are actually fortunate enough to sleep tonight.”
“Did you hear anything?” Linda asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing except a dog and an owl, and a train. I'm feeling a bit chilled and am going to make myself a pot of hot cocoa. Is anyone interested in joining me?”
Adwin shook his head while Linda and I nodded.
Talk over a pot of hot cocoa had to bring a few things to light… Didn't it?
* * *
Tired and cocoa-saturated, the three of us plodded back to our rooms. No Fred the Ghost on the shadowy stairwells or hallways at 2:30 a.m. There was Fred the Feline, however. Even in the dimness, I could see his big furry head peeking from beneath the blankets as he rested alongside my beau's chest. What a cute couple. I turned on an overhanging cast-iron lighting fixture that could have graced a nineteenth-century inventor's workroom and grabbed a Nikon camera I'd tucked into a drawer. Click, click. Click, click.
Adwin shifted and opened one eye, groaned, and opened the other. Fred looked annoyed and crawled deep under the blankets, prompting a giggle from his bedside partner. Adwin shrugged. “Can I help it if I'm ticklish?” He rubbed his disheveled hair, looking like the lucky kid at the science center who got to rub a balloon in the pursuit of hair-raising knowledge. “How'd the hot-chocolate party go? Did you learn anything of interest?”
I dropped beside the lump at the foot of the bed. It shifted, but stayed put. I could love cats, really I could, if it wasn't for the allergy. In their presence too long and I looked like I'd been on a three-day bender. Red-rimmed eyes and blotchy skin didn't do much on the pretty scale. Nor did raucous sneezing and a runny nose.
“I learned that Linda loves white chocolate and whipped cream, strawberries and cherries, reading and writing, anything Bollywood, and fringe theater. Lager is her choice of drink and she leans toward jazz. Percival is into obscure poetry and landscaping, writes gardening articles as well as said obscure poetry, and is fifty-one but doesn't feel a day over forty-one. He likes Turkish Delight, cookies, and savory scones.” I patted the lump. “According to the radio that was on in the background, the temperature is dropping rapidly and we could see some major snowfall come early aft.”
Adwin pulled himself into a seated position and stretched willowy arms. “I was referring to Thomas Saturne.”
“Linda and I are inclined more than not to believe he was murdered. Percival prefers to believe he died of a natural or accidental cause.”
“Everyone seems so calm about this death.” He smiled wryly. “You're approaching it like you're sitting down to watch and chat about the tasty tidbits Entertainment Tonight has to offer.”
I smiled wryly in return. “Percival thought Thomas was weird. So did Linda.”
“Being weird doesn't mean you're murder material.”
I rubbed my itchy nose. Oh-oh. “Both of them noticed the mark.”
“The bug bite?” He frowned. “How could anyone notice it among that mess of red?”
“The blotches were scarlet and this teensy weensy mark was a deep ruby color. Also, there was a miniscule hint of blood. Linda noticed it when Gwynne stepped over to reprimand that cute young cop who'd scarfed the last piece of strudel.”
One eyebrow arched.
“Linda's a screenwriter's assistant and wannabe mystery writer. She's never viewed a real murdered body up close. She wanted details.”
Adwin shook his head. “Great, I'm stuck with a bunch of Nancy Drews for the week.”
“Percival may take umbrage with that.”
“Okay, Nancy Drews and one Hardy Boy.” He watched Fred jump from the bed and pad across the room. “Did either one of them mention seeing … you know?”
I stood and disrobed. Sleep was but seconds away. “The stories didn't change during the liquid sugar rush. Linda hadn't seen what we saw and Percival hadn't heard or seen anything out of the ordinary.” I slipped under the covers.
“Maybe we imagined seeing … you know.”
“We saw a ghost, honey bun. A tall translucent man with a hint of a silvery mist twirling around his, uh, spirit-ness. He was dressed in clothes of yesteryear and happily ambling down the corridor.” My heavy head sank into a wonderfully soft pillow.
“It could have been a trick. You know, a hologram or something.”
“It could have been, but it wasn't.” Like the old War song, I began “slippin into darkness”.
7
Breakfast Beckons
A few minutes before 8:00 a.m., I entered a kumquat-colored mini gym with the intention of spending an hour losing calories and gaining energy. The exercise room was on the second floor o
n the west side, away from guest rooms and main foot traffic. A tall unadorned narrow door leading into it could easily have served as an entrance to a storeroom for anyone knew.
“Oh.” I'd not expected company.
“Miss Fonne,” Jensen Q. Moone greeted me with a bow of the head. Dressed in navy-blue Nike nylon pants and a well-pressed ash-gray sweatshirt promoting the Hawaiian Islands, he was seated on a sleek g-Force RT Lemond stationary bike, cycling at a slow but steady pace. A thin layer of sweat lined a high smooth brow. Forbes was on his lap.
I stepped onto a Smooth elliptical trainer. “Have you been here long?”
He glanced at a Swiss Army watch. “About forty minutes. I did weight training,” he motioned the Boflex home gym machine, “and now I'm doing cardio. Another fifteen minutes and I'll have a pot of Earl Gray. And prior to lunch, I'll partake of the hot tub and sauna.”
“Aunt Mat has a hot tub and sauna?”
He pointed down, to the north. “They're off the deck, accessible through that huge oak door to the left of the den.”
“She has a deck?” Why was that so surprising?
He laughed. “Not in the traditional sense. It's more of an elaborate patio, with a built-in barbecue and 'picnic' area which, in summer, is graced with clemitis, English ivy, and bougainvillea. The in-ground hot tub is set up like a pergola – the sunlight can stream through the top during good weather, but when it's frightfully wretched out, the 'roof' can also be closed. It's rather an elaborate structure.”
And a costly one from the sounds of it. But it did sound welcoming. “Maybe I'll partake of the hot tub, too.”
He offered a quick smile, flipped a page in the magazine, then glanced up. “I'm sorry about your aunt.”
I sensed he genuinely meant that and gratitude was reflected in my expression. “She'd lived a very good life.”
“She had indeed.” He seemed to weigh the worth of offering the next comment. “I hear people truly believe Thomas Saturne may have been murdered.”
I smiled wryly and upped the resistance level on the elliptical. The current one wouldn't have been challenging to a seventy-year-old with bursitis. “I believe Cousin Reynalda actually set that rumor in motion last night, but I thought people had opted to forget it.”
He smiled as well. “She reminded us when she went around knocking up people to inquire about migraine-strength pain killers. It's more than a 'rumor' now.”
“What do you think?”
“You're very inquisitive, aren't you?” He eyed me curiously. “Are you hoping to help your cousin prove the 'rumor' is actually fact?”
I chuckled. “Let's say it's the investigative reporter in me.”
He smirked. “I thought you were a weathergirl?”
“Meteorologist,” I corrected automatically, then smiled. “With an investigative reporter buried deep within.”
“I must confess, I am curious about the man's unusual passing.” His fleshy lips thinned. “The man wasn't overly likeable, and he did ruffle feathers.”
“Prunella's?” I grinned. “Or her flying friends'?”
He laughed heartily. “I couldn't speak for our Audubon enthusiast, but I understand he'd angered and irritated several clients and associates. I'd hardly imagine one of them, however, would steal onto Mathilda's estate and do away with the man.”
“Never say never,” I murmured.
“Beg pardon?”
I met his puzzled gaze. “It's unlikely, but not impossible.”
His expression darkened. “We'll leave it to the police to determine.”
“When was the last time you saw Aunt Mat?”
He hesitated, then smiled. “That would have been about four months ago, just three days before she passed, at an after-theater event. We'd both attended the opening of a local production: Arsenic and Old Lace.”
“Did you see Aunt Mat often?”
“Yes, fairly regularly. I fly here four or five times a year for business and pleasure.”
“I'd enjoy hearing about some of your visits.”
“I'd enjoy recounting a few,” he responded amiably.
I listened with great interest as he detailed entertaining accounts of silly, fun-filled Mathilda Moone affairs.
* * *
I acknowledged Percival Sayers' entrance into the exercise room with a nod. “Who'd have imagined this place would prove so popular?”
Jensen had finished his exercise regime five minutes ago. Prunella had popped in, intending to use the Bodyguard T200 treadmill, but said she'd return. “Nothing against you, Jill,” she'd stated with a fleeting smile, “but I like working out in complete solitude. I'll come back later in the evening.”
“It appears we're all fitness freaks.” He removed a thick white bath towel with gold brocade from his shoulders and laid it on a Bowflex bench.
Why didn't it surprise me to see him sporting a pressed, blinding white T-shirt tucked into long, baggy cotton shorts and tall, thick knee socks? It wasn't a flattering look on any man of any age, but when knobby, scarred knees entered the equation – yow.
“But your sister prefers exercising in 'complete solitude'.”
“She's funny that way.” He smirked. “I believe she has a phobia about people seeing her sweat.” He climbed onto the bike Jensen had recently occupied and keyed a program. “You're not lounging about downstairs, discussing homicide theories with your cousin and friend?”
“We've exhausted all possibilities. For now.”
He laughed. “Prunella likes the murder-by-blowgun theory.”
“Blowgun?”
“Didn't you suggest last night – at least a couple of times – he was poisoned? And that there was something on his neck – a tiny hole or something?”
“Linda did the suggesting, based on my cousin's creative speculation. But yes, there was an odd dot, a puncture mark. It could have been made by a dart or tiny shaft, or something similar … like a blowgun.”
“Which is a weapon that would lend itself to poison – a substance like curare. It's like something in a plot from an old black-and-white movie: very classic and very 40s. I love it. Prunella thinks it's hilarious. We could use the entertainment.” He laughed vigorously. “You ladies do make for great arguments and the dramatic.”
I stepped off the elliptical and moved to the Bowflex where I started doing lateral shoulder raises. “What if it's not entertainment? What if he truly was murdered?”
“As we discussed last night,” he responded casually, “I don't believe it was murder. I haven't changed my mind. That mark, if it was a puncture, could have been the result of something completely innocuous.”
“But what if it's true,” I persisted, “that he was killed?”
Percival frowned and stared at the bike monitor. “Then we have a killer amongst us, and we'd better pray that he doesn't kill again.” He straightened and smiled. “Let's retreat from such forbidding fantasies, shall we?”
I nodded and did several biceps curls before speaking again. “What did you know about the man, besides his leaning toward the dispassionate?”
“I only met him perhaps four times during the last decade at one Matty Moone affair or another, and only briefly at that. We exchanged a few words about work, weather, that sort of inoffensive, mild type of thing. He wasn't very likeable or warm. He didn't inspire you to delve into lengthy discussions.”
I wondered what had made the Manhattan lawyer tick. Where had the somberness, the moodiness, stemmed from? Had he hated life, people, himself? “Was your sister of the same mind?”
“Possibly. I can't recall that Thomas Saturne had ever been a topic of conversation between us, but we do tend to view people in the same light.” One lean shoulder presented a lame shrug. “She had known him better than I. They sat on the same board for several years. How much actual interaction they had, I've no idea.”
“He must have made for fascinating meetings.”
Percival laughed and altered his cycling program.
* * *
The telepathy that had started at dinner the night before continued in the morning and weary faces showed up for a late breakfast at 9:55 a.m. in another dining room used for casual meals. The cozy room was smaller, more plain and simple, than the one of the night previous. Butter-yellow walls were accentuated by egg-white crown molding along the ceiling, and lace valances and tiers with a rose design graced three square windows. There were no decorations save for a house cuckoo clock on the south wall that looked very Black Forest with its moving waitress and coachman and Bavarian Biergarten. I noted it was 10:00 but no cuckoo informed us so.
We were seated at a long rectangular table with a white linen tablecloth and butter-yellow napkins. The china was white: Wedgwood (I had to look). Care to guess what Porter served? Yup, mushroom omelets. Mind you, there was an alternative option: mushroom frittatas. I requested jasmine tea and rye toast with buckwheat honey and got orange pekoe and wheat toast with strawberry jam – the kind with pectin, that substance sometimes described as any group of water-soluble colloidal carbohydrates (I learned that during a shoot at a jam manufacturing plant). How tasty sounding was that? As tasty as over-flavored, brightly-colored jam.
Speaking of tasty – as in tasty bit of information – ten quick minutes of Internet research after the exercise session had garnered a condensed history of the Moone family. They'd resided in Connecticut for several generations after having emigrated from Brighton England. Money had never been an issue. It seemed Travers “Simian Eared” Moone had been highly successful either as a celebrated privateer or fearsome pirate, depending on which story was to be believed. (No, he wasn't referred to as “Simian Eared” in anything I'd read and seen, but with those ears the nickname sprung quickly to mind.)
On a whim I'd texted Ger, who'd responded quickly with a phone call. Maybe he'd truly been ill. Or maybe he wanted to ensure I didn't think he was playing hooky. Either way, I suspected I was going to owe big time.
“You want me to find out about your resident spook Fred, huh?”
“Do you think you can do it, Gerben?” He'd been named after a long-time dead-ago Dutch uncle. “Kher-bunn” was the actual pronunciation he'd told me after three margaritas at a permanent bon-voyage party for the last station GM, who thought she was simply headed for two weeks of play and pleasure in Antigua, and wasn't it nice of everyone to see her off?
