by Tyler Colins
He looked at me as if that went without saying, turned off the stove, and moved the pot with the stew to another burner.
“Did you know Thomas Saturne?”
“Only by name and sight.” He shuffled back to the fridge and removed butter and eggs.
“So you wouldn't know if anyone hated him enough to kill him?”
Porter's ruddy chipmunk cheeks performed a hamster shuffle (invisible nuts shifted from one facial pocket to the other and back again). A sizeable trident-shaped scar graced the lower left cheek. That injury must have hurt like crazy. “Are the police saying he was murdered?”
“No.” I smiled trimly. “Not yet.”
More hamster shuffles. Close-set ash-gray eyes stared into mine. “Do you think he was murdered?”
“I'm a budding reporter,” I shrugged. “It's my nature to be nosy and presume or assume the worst – until proven otherwise.”
He marched to the pantry like a soldier on a mission. “Anything else, Miss Fonne?” he asked when he returned with a fresh bag of sorghum flour and bottle of agave nectar. His visage conveyed nothing: no curiosity, annoyance, or joy. The man was hard to read.
I shook my head.
“The final touches to dinner require undivided attention. You don't mind if I continue my work – in solitude?”
I shook my head again.
“Miss.” He bowed a cantaloupe-shaped head and ambled back to the counter with the cutting board while I moved on to the library-study, hoping to find an entertaining book to read later in bed.
I was scanning the inside jacket of Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, a book I'd not read since high school, when May-Lee Sonit entered.
She jumped upon seeing me. “You startled me!”
“Apparently,” I smiled, tucking the book under my arm.
She laughed anxiously and strolled to the shelves that housed fiction books. “I seem to be in a reading frame of mind and thought I'd grab two or three more novels.”
“Good books beat TV any day.”
“I agree. There are too many reality shows and not enough quality programming anymore.” She scanned two shelves and removed Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls and Twain's Life on the Mississippi. “I never tire of either.”
“The books? Or the authors?”
She regarded me for several seconds. “You look like Mathilda. You have her cheeks and mouth.”
Instinctively I touched my face. “No one's mentioned that before.”
“They've probably never seen the two of you together before.”
“Either have you.”
“But I have. Here you are and there she is.” She gestured three large photos in ornate silver frames on one of two antique oak carved pedestal tables. One was of Aunt Mat and Reginald by a willow tree in a vast hilly park during their early years. Gauging from the nearby flowering trees and colorful tulips, it was early spring. Another was of Reginald receiving an award or certificate from a man who bore a striking resemblance to Christopher Lloyd in Back to the Future. The third was a medium shot of my aunt in a forest-green sequined number at a black-tie gala, probably taken five or six years ago. “There's definitely a resemblance.”
“You two were close.”
“Very.” She glanced wistfully at the third photo. “We shared many enjoyable moments together.”
“You also shared a lot of interests.”
“We did, yes – antiques, art, theater, opera, viticulture and the resulting fine wines.” Another wistful glance.
“Did you know Thomas at all?”
She hugged the books to her chest. “We'd met a few times over the years, primarily here at the estate.” She smiled sadly. “Mat did have a flair for in-house parties and celebrations.”
“What did you think of the man?”
“He was stuffy, self-absorbed, anxious, preoccupied. He wasn't overly friendly and he wasn't one to open up to others and make them feel welcome or liked.” She shrugged. “I suppose I shouldn't be so judgmental, considering the man's deceased.”
“But that's certainly the impression he gave,” I agreed. “Do you think someone could have disliked him enough to have killed him?”
Eyes the color of Red Rose tea widened. “The man's death was an accident, wasn't it? I know what your cousin has been claiming, and what's been said, but I can't believe his death was anything but an accident.”
I smiled fleetingly and sauntered to the door. “Of course it was an accident. It's very easy to get caught up in Rey's penchant for the melodramatic.”
She scanned my face, chuckled lightly, and moved into the hallway.
Forget Cousin Reynalda's nonsense. I'd allowed myself to become absorbed in the dramatics. Of course Thomas' death was an accident. So I'd keep convincing myself.
11
Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are
Dressed in black linen pants and a white silk shirt with a polka-dotted white and teal scarf, a gift from Aunt Mat several months back, I swung into the main dining room, Adwin not far behind. I wasn't surprised to find the other gals wearing shirts and pants as well, in different shades of gray and brown, but I did raise a curious brow at the array of polka-dotted scarves. I'd not even have worn mine had it not been draped on the same hanger as my shirt, kind of like a prompt or Post-It note. This was becoming way too coincidental.
“Nice scarf. A gift from Aunt Mat?” I asked Rey flatly.
“Yeah. I forgot I had it. In fact, I'm pretty sure I forgot to bring it along.” She glanced down, bemused. “Because I forgot I even had it.”
The Sayers presented puckered brows while Linda, May-Lee, and I eyeballed each other's neckwear.
“Soup's on,” Adwin announced as Hubert limped in with a large white ceramic tureen and set it in the middle of the table. This time there were no bizarre dinner service motifs. A thick beige linen tablecloth and eggplant-colored napkins, and tall cream-colored candles adorned the table. It was all quite staid, which made me wonder what Mathilda Moone had in store for the evening (the others might lower their guards, but mine was on red alert).
“What the hell is this?” Rey asked, looking into the tureen.
“I believe it's a pepper pot,” Percival replied cheerfully.
She peered closer. “What's in it? I see mushrooms and veggies, but there's lumpy meat-like stuff in here.”
“That would be tripe, dearie,” Prunella said with a smile as wry as her brother's. “Dumplings and tripe.”
“Lovely,” Rey murmured, wrinkling her nose. She leaned toward Linda and quietly asked, “What the frig is tripe?”
“The lining of a bovine stomach.”
My cousin's face took on a corpse-like hue.
Prunella inhaled deeply and said, “It smells absolutely divine.”
Hubert nodded and, as if on cue, began to serve.
Talk was limited as we dove into the pepper pot. Alright, maybe we didn't exactly dive; we sniffed, tested gingerly, sniffed again, and then dove in. It was tasty … for bovine stomach lining.
“I won the bet,” Percival said after emptying his bowl. “I said soup.”
“You did,” Prunella nodded, “but this wasn't mushroom soup per se. It merely had edible agaric in it.”
No one won the bet that evening. The pepper pot was followed by chicken schnitzels, spaetzle (Austrian noodle thingies) and creamed mushrooms. Dessert was a dense, spice-laden pumpkin pie – and a very good one judging from the way Adwin's lips curled upward between mouthfuls.
Later, after dinner and a few treks upstairs, we adjourned to the Drink & Death Room, as Linda called the drawing room. We were sipping mint tea and avoiding eye contact, ensconced in those little Zen zones we'd become quite familiar with in the last twenty-four hours, when ghost-like booing started to flow softly around us like milkweed filaments propelled by a westerly wind.
“How Abbott and Costello,” Linda commented.
“That explains why Jensen didn't show up for dinner,” Percival said with a roll of h
is eyes, jerking a thumb upward. “He's hovering near a vent, doing a Casper impression.”
“It's kinda lame,” Rey sniffed, pouring more tea into her cup.
“Why don't we sneak up on him and give him a scare?” Linda suggested, standing. “I don't want him thinking he can get away with this all night.”
“If the lot of us 'sneak up on him', we'd hardly catch him unawares,” Prunella pointed out dully.
Rey threw back her tea. “Let's give it a try. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work. We'll get back at him with our original plan.”
“Never mind the fact there have to be hidden rooms and walkways in an old place like this,” Linda added with a nod.
“Let's split up,” I proposed. “Rey and Linda can take the west wing. Adwin, you and I will take the east. Prunella and Percival could –”
High-pitched staccato laughter echoed throughout the dwelling.
Linda snorted. “Geez, now we've got freaking Fred Flintstone's Uncle Giggles running amok.”
Percival looked blank, but Adwin and I laughed.
“Okay guys, let's do as my cousin suggested and take different parts of the house,” Rey said, stepping past.
I grabbed her forearm. “Let's not make too much noise. We want to surprise him.”
“How're we going to see anything? We can't exactly go turning on lights if we're aiming for the element of surprise,” Adwin pointed out.
“Let me get those flashlights we put back in the pantry earlier.” Percival strolled from the room; a man with a target.
* * *
The lighting in a rectangular music room was as dim as it was everywhere else in that wing of the house. A lone bulb in a shade-less lamp was 40W at best. Different sized cloths in various shades of beige and taupe, ranging from silky-soft to scratchy-coarse, had covered two classic pianos, an Erard harp, a long wooden trunk, and one tall cabinet in which clarinets rested. They now lay on a smooth maple hardwood floor that would have gleamed had it been waxed. Textured wallpaper, a dusty rose and pale peach-puff combination, did little to brighten the place. Dusting appeared to be regular, but it didn't look as if music lovers hadn't frequented the room in years.
Adwin gazed at a John Brinsmead Art Case Upright while running fingers lovingly over a 1880s French Pfeiffer Cottage Upright, its wrinkled cover lying at its pedals like a shorn shroud. His expression was similar to the one he sported when putting finishing touches on a five-layer hazelnut butter torte. Music had been the pastry chef's first love, but an incident with a flaky if not skittish piano maestro and the lid of a grand piano terminated a successful music career before it started. Fortunately, those long graceful fingers hadn't been too damaged and they went on to create other magnum opuses: delectable ones.
I could imagine May-Lee regarding both pianos with appraising eyes, calculating their worth if they were to find their ways into her shop. Or perhaps she'd simply admire the workmanship and marvel at the history.
I could see the Moones going for the pianos and the harp, but clarinets? Pleased to demonstrate how far his know-how extended, my beau-slash-music-expert pointed out one was an A-flat clarinet and the other a bass clarinet (his Australian cousin Henry played the former in a military band). Given Aunt Mat's taste for the odd and different, I could imagine her tooting on the former, but not the latter, a heavy version with a floor stand.
“What's up?”
I brushed dust from the jersey cardigan I'd slipped on before the exploration began. It was getting progressively colder out and it seemed as if the chilly external air were seeping in through windows and cracks. Earlier, the Weather Channel had posted a winter storm watch, which had already gripped Georgia, where highways were experiencing icy white-out conditions, freezing fog, and multiple pile-ups. It would impact at least six states over the next few hours. Airports had already started to delay and cancel flights. From the feel of it, the ice storm was approaching rapidly. Closing a case, I asked, “Do people toot?”
Adwin laughed. “Only if they're taxis.”
“Ha, ha.” I walked over to see what he'd found in a strongbox. “Anything of note?”
He held up a small pile of printed songs. “It's hard to hide body parts among compositions.”
“What a funny boy you are … not.”
“Are you ready to move to the next room?”
“I'm ready to call it a night.”
He draped an arm around my shoulders and we strolled to the door. “Where's that investigative reporter instinct?”
“I'm a weather gal,” I replied with a droll smile. “I only need to look out a window to get my story.”
Adwin laughed as we stepped into the shadowed hallway – only to freeze as a sound that fell between a shriek and a screech pierced the air.
“You've got to wonder if there are amplifiers hidden beyond these walls.” He peered into the darkness. “What do you think – was that part of the show?”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. “I doubt it.” I grabbed Adwin's hand and we raced forward, making it across the house in seconds, only to stop at a flight of shadowy stairs, unsure which direction to take.
Adwin gestured upward. “That way.”
I pointed down the hallway. “That way.”
“Is anyone down there?” Percival's voice boomed from above.
We hastened up the stairs, stopping before the writer, who stood at the base of a narrow winding staircase that led to the tower where Prunella claimed Reginald kept additional “oddments”. He held a pewter candelabrum in which five fat white candles burned. The golden light made his angular face glow eerily, giving him the appearance of a specter visiting from an otherworld.
Adwin glanced around. “Where is everyone?”
“I have no idea, but I heard a scream. I thought it came from up there,” he motioned, “but the door is locked and there doesn't appear to be anyone beyond it. I was heading down to find someone to help me open it. Now that you're here, the three of us should easily be able to break it down.”
Adwin smiled wearily. “It's another joke … probably.”
“The scream sounded like one of Pruney's,” Percival claimed, his expression bordering on pained.
Pruney? Oh boy. The more time spent in their company, the weirder the brother-sister duo was becoming. “Maybe she and the girls decided to turn tables and scare Jensen, and/ or us,” I said with a wink.
Percival looked from me to Adwin and back again. The knots in his brow softened. “I wouldn't put it past your cousin to think up something silly like that.”
Adwin had to agree. “Let them have their fun –”
Another shriek-screech erupted. We scurried up the steps, bumping into walls and jostling one another like the Ghostbusters pursuing the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man.
Percival rammed the candelabrum into Adwin's chest, nearly knocking him over.
He clutched it, barely avoiding a singed neck, a curse seen but not heard.
Prunella's anxious brother rattled a heavy, clunky lock that would have nicely graced a medieval castle. It wouldn't give so he banged on the heavy wooden door and shouted his sister's name several times before Adwin kneed him in the butt. The action was very unlike my beau, but then so was the, “Will you get a frigging grip, dude? She's not answering the frigging door!”
The lock was sturdy and secure. I was about to request suggestions as to how to open it with no hairpins or sharp implements in reach when something movie-time popped into my head. I reached upward and felt along the doorsill. Nothing. So much for ingenious flashes. Not completely discouraged, I moved onward.
Percival gestured. “Help me break it down.”
Adwin scanned the door that had to be as solid as a fortress gate. The look he gave the middle-aged gent suggested he thought the man two screws short of demented.
“Do you have a better idea?” His question held enough chill to form ice crystals on Adwin's thin upper lip.
“I do.” I held up a brass key I'd fo
und secured to the underside of a staircase banister.
Ignoring Percival's outstretched hand, I unlocked the door. Despite its thickness and size, the door swung inward as easily and lightly as if it were a feather fan.
Adwin slipped in first, lighting the way for several feet. “Wow.”
The round room was filled with artifacts and curiosities and Prunella's “oddments”. “Wow” didn't begin to describe it. Numerous showcase pieces, made primarily of bone and horn, were so simple and crude they could only have been homemade. But made in whose home? The mad scientist, Dr. Moreau's?
A tiny control, cleverly camouflaged to blend into roughhewn bricks alongside the door, proved to be a light switch. A soft glow, pale as moonlight, swathed the room.
“Maybe we should have stuck with candlelight,” Adwin said with a tight smile, positioning the candelabrum in the gauntlet of a 16th-century knight. “Hang onto that, willya Lancie?”
“What a hodgepodge,” Percival muttered.
“You've never been in here?” I asked. I'd come to believe brother and sister did everything together. So how had Prunella known what was in here? An educated guess? Or a personal invitation?
“Never had the, mmm, privilege.”
“How ugly is this guy?” Adwin's face was an inch from a wrought-iron griffin. The winged monster stood as tall as he.
“Not half as hideous as this one,” Percival said, eyeing a terra cotta cherub corbel near a high and narrow arched window. “Keeee-rist. The thing looks possessed!”
I'd have argued that a bronze fountain top I'd nearly crashed into beat theirs by a mile or two; a crazed-looking eagle with pointed wings that nearly touched the ceiling clasped a misshapen world in sharp, oversize talons.
Thunk. Swish. Cheep-chirp-chitter. Strange subdued sounds emanated from the area of a carved Gothic gargoyle gracing the wall across from the window.
We exchanged glances that wavered between baffled and frightened.
“Is this where we poke our guardian against evil in the eye and he steers us to a secret room?” Adwin stepped forward and pressed one eye and then the other. Nothing happened.
