by Tyler Colins
A worried-looking Percival whispered something to Prunella and she scanned his face before turning back to Porter and murmuring into his ear. He gave the barest of nods … before straightening and toppling like a lightning-struck sapling.
“I'll find smelling salts.” The butler limped hastily from view as Rey and I hurried forward.
“He's looking awfully pale,” I murmured.
“How can you tell? He's always pasty,” Rey stated.
“As white as button mushrooms,” Linda agreed.
I scanned the prone body dressed in a black traditional-fit chef's coat with knotted cloth buttons and baggy white houndstooth pants. Small, maybe size nine, Wolverine shoes graced his wide feet. The cook's pudgy hand, now sporting a sizeable sapphire on the middle finger in addition to the silver pinky ring, had a tiny blood drop near the thumb. It appeared to be the only wound suffered.
Beatrice arrived with a large plastic tray supporting a first-aid kit, two small bottles of water, and a fleece covering, which Percival grabbed and passed to his sister.
She folded the soft cover under Porter's head.
“I've called for an ambulance,” the maid announced, “just in case.”
Frowning, Prunella peered at her patient. “Hopefully he's not in need of paramedic assistance.”
“Has anyone looked into the trunk or car to see what might have caused Porter to faint like that?” May-Lee asked inquisitively.
“Ten bucks we find a body inside,” Linda declared.
“I'll bet fifty it's Jensen,” Percival stated.
“Well it ain't gonna be Fred the Ghost's,” Rey responded with a smirk.
My cousin and I moved forward, swung open the trunk as far as possible, and peered inside.
“One, two, three, you're so-o it,” Rey said softly.
Though pale as custard and looking as flaccid as taffy, Jensen Moone's face was as serene as it was last night. You might have thought the man had snuck into the trunk to get away from it all and take a nap. There was no sign of blood or trauma, and the stake was gone, as was the designer shirt. In its place was a thick navy-blue flannel number, something cheap, a workman's choice. Why the change of shirts? He was dead. What difference would it have made if the shirt were nice and clean or ripped and bloody? Or was it that the killer couldn't bear to view the mutilation? Maybe he or she felt a pang of remorse? And why play hide-n-seek with the body? I voiced my thoughts to my cousin.
She scanned Jensen up and down. “The killer probably removed the stake to better transfer and store the guy. Maybe, like you said, he or she couldn't stand looking at the cavity in his chest. Here – hold on.” Jaw clenched, she undid two buttons and peered beneath the fabric. “He's thickly bandaged. I'm guessing our killer didn't want to leave a trail of body fluid and fleshy bits,” she said with a tight smile. “… Do we call the cops again?”
“Someone should.” I gestured the grim-faced cook who'd not yet found his tongue. His head fell back. With that glazed, dazed expression and static pose, Porter could have passed for a toppled giant wind-up toy. I picked up keys that lay not far from his feet and tucked them in Rey's two-pocket tunic. “Maybe you could call them,” I suggested.
She looked down at Porter, who was staring up at her. “Are you up to joining me, Chef?” Grabbing his right arm, she motioned Percival to grab the left.
Porter's lips moved. Then he fell into a stupor.
I crossed my arms and leaned into the side of the car. “Apparently the excitement's been too much for him.”
“It's proving too much for me,” Adwin said dryly. “I'll go and call the police.”
“Rey and I will stay here.” I nodded toward Jensen. “This time our pseudo British barrister remains in full sight.”
“Unless he pulls a Fred the Ghost,” Rey said wryly.
Hubert hobbled quickly into the garage. “I've found them,” he announced triumphantly, brandishing smelling salts like a track marshal waving a red flag.
* * *
Swallowing the last of a large pecan cookie, Percival appeared happy and smug. “They believed us this time.” He was leaning against the four-oven cooker in the massive kitchen. An ugly pinto-bean brown corduroy jacket worn earlier had been exchanged for an ugly pea-green cardigan, but a brick-brown Hugo Boss tie remained.
We'd all put on new clothes. Heavy sweaters, jeans and runners were the order for most. Something about finding dead bodies tended to make you want to re-shower and re-dress. And we'd had the time. Lewis and Gwynne, although scheduled for duty later in the day, had been immediately contacted by the officer who'd taken Adwin's call. The two men elected to make the return trip themselves, but due to multiple traffic accidents and a lost dog incident (the Sheriff's), hadn't managed it as quickly as intended. The ambulance had arrived in a more timely manner, but Porter had pulled himself together, at least enough to utter that he would not
Once the two officers had viewed Jensen's supine body, and determined the barrister was indeed deceased, things moved as quickly as they could given the extreme weather. Law enforcement folks, media types, and curious neighbors willing to brave the angry weather collected and collided. A couple of tempers flared and fisticuffs weren't far behind. Two reporters rolling and grappling around the glacial ground would have been comical under less serious circumstances.
We'd all taken a bit of private and personal time between questions, face-offs and flare-ups. Mine was spent checking messages. Angela had sent an email stating there was little of interest to be found on the two dead gents. Her findings were basically the same ones Rey had revealed earlier, but Angela had listed actual boards and committees Thomas had sat on over the years: two non-profits, one telecom firm, two pharmaceutical companies, and Igloonomics Inc., a company that made plastic igloos for pets and ice-fisherpeople.
In terms of Jensen Q. Moone, he'd been a successful barrister in South Kensington for several years and had been involved with prestigious organizations and charities not only in England but in the United States. He had a socialite wife named Winda who looked like a bow-collared Pomeranian but possessed a pit bull personality. There were no kids. My belief the first evening hadn't been far off the mark re little love being lost between the two. Two photos, five years apart, showed a couple that obviously barely tolerated each other. Frosty glares were scarcely concealed and tension was evident in squared shoulders, while smiles were faker than those of politicians making promissory oaths. They reminded me of two welterweights at a televised press conference trying to be civil prior to the big match.
There was also a photo of Jensen with Reginald at Reginald's sixtieth birthday party. Held at an exclusive country club outside Greenwich, it was the do to attend that fall. It seemed the brothers had ceased being at odds and had come to an understanding at the grand shindig. Who'd arranged for the brothers to finally bury the hatchet? Aunt Mat?
“Wasn't that Gwynne fellow as sour as tamarind when he laid eyes on the body?” Prunella asked with a sneer. “It serves the bugger right.”
Adwin glanced at her, bemused, while May-Lee quelled a smirk.
“The next time we call, they won't be so quick to pooh-pooh us,” Prunella said crisply.
“There won't be a next time,” Percival responded lightly, then frowned deeply, perhaps concerned he could have spoken too soon.
Rey, seated at a small rectangular table that served as part of a breakfast nook, poured more coffee. It was her fourth, but instead of being revved, she looked calm, concentrated, deep in thought. That wasn't good. What was even worse was that I could read her mind. What was even more worse was that I wanted to do precisely what she was contemplating doing, so before she suggested it, I did. “It's a few minutes after four. Porter's out for the count for the afternoon and probably the evening, despite what he mumbled about an 8:00 p.m. dinner, so we're on our own. And since we've all indulged our swe
et tooths, I don't see us eating anytime soon. What's say we kill – uh – pass time by retracing steps? Maybe we'll figure out Jensen's along the way.”
Adwin jerked a thumb toward the window. “And get in the way of the last of the legal sorts?”
“They can't be everywhere at once, and their main focus is the garage,” I pointed out with a patient smile.
“I believe they're heading out as quickly as they can, given what they're required to do, before the storm hits full-force,” May-Lee said.
“It's pretty forceful right now,” Percival declared. “According to the news, it won't be long before this encroaching nor'easter topples power lines and tree limbs. Flights have been cancelled in a few states and several interstates are evolving into colossal skating rinks and parking lots.”
“That's probably why they haven't asked us to leave the estate,” Prunella murmured, absently fingering a fresh bandage on her cheek.
“They should post an officer here to keep a watchful eye,” Adwin said.
Percival snorted. “Why? Are you expecting more murders?”
Before Adwin could answer in the affirmative, I jumped in. “Let's do as I suggested and retrace steps. It's better than twiddling thumbs, sitting idle, or scarfing endless supplies of baked goods.”
Percival shook his head. “I'm up for nothing more than a nice little nap.”
“Okay Grandpa, suit yourself,” Rey said with an exaggerated toss of her head.
May-Lee chuckled.
Linda finally tuned into the conversation, which had taken a rear seat to a bowl of strawberry-cheesecake ice-cream she'd been devouring with noisy gusto. “Count me in for detecting.” She looked at May-Lee.
Who motioned her chin where a bit of berry clung, nodded, and then turned to Prunella with a defiant gaze.
“Fine. Count me in, too,” the bird lover said haughtily and turned to her brother.
He shook his head again.
Prunella shrugged. “I need to do a couple of things. Give me a few minutes.”
Percival turned to Adwin, his expression dry. “And you, Addy?”
He glanced from one set face to another and turned up his palms in a what-choice-do-I-have gesture. “I'm with the girls – er, women.”
With a sow-like snort, Percival took his sister's elbow. “I'll escort you up.”
“Let's all meet in twenty minutes by Reginald's room of gloom,” Rey said cheerily, waving them off.
“What strange siblings,” Linda murmured, watching them saunter from sight.
“They're more like an odd couple,” May-Lee responded with an expression of irritation. “With very heavy emphasis on 'odd'.”
“They're fucking freaks,” Rey declared.
Adwin grimaced and strolled from the room, muttering something about meeting us in ten or doing Zen. Or maybe he'd called Rey a disagreeable hen.
* * *
“Whose hand's on my ass?” Rey cried out in the darkness.
“Not mine.” Adwin. “I wouldn't touch that butt if you paid me,” followed under his breath.
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
“We'll talk later, Jilly's boyfriend. We're hanging a left everybody, right dear cousin?”
“Right.”
“No, left,” Percival affirmed. He'd decided to accompany us at the last moment. Maybe Prunella had convinced him to or maybe lying in bed like a bull's eye – considering two men had recently died unpleasant deaths – had prompted him to change his mind.
“I meant –”
“Let's not go there,” I advised, scenes of old tired comedy and cartoon routines flooding my head.
“Not go left?”
“Rey!” I all but shrieked.
“Left!” Percival and Adwin shouted.
Like daycare kids hanging on to a group tether device, we proceeded down a corridor leading from the “room of gloom” to Jensen's “burial chamber” (Prunella's contribution). We were without benefit of light because Rey's large flashlight had died two-hundred feet into the bricked passageway and no one else had thought to bring an extra one. Determined we were. Smart? That was questionable.
“Ouch. Watch it! I don't need a scab on top of an already scabbed nose,” Linda crabbed.
“I can't bloody well see, so pardon me-e,” Percival groused.
“Fuck!” Rey.
“Watch that mouth, sister.” Adwin.
“I hit my frigging head against a wall.” A couple of curses followed, these ones soft. “We must be at the end. Who opened this panel last night?”
“I did.” Adwin brushed past. “Let me at it. Okay. I think … yes … got it!”
No one wanted to move forward in the blackness and stub a toe or break a limb by crashing into furniture, so we stood there for a few seconds like deer caught in convoy headlights.
“I think I remember where the lamps are.” Arms outstretched and feet moving at a snail's pace, I stepped forward cautiously. A bang into wood, a table from the shape and weight of it, made my eyes water, but I managed to locate one of the parlor lamps and turned it on. An apricot glow warmed the room. May-Lee hastened to turn on the second one.
“See if you can find a flashlight or candle that we can use to illuminate the passageways,” I instructed Adwin and Linda, and turned to Rey, who now stood beside Prunella. “Should we take that loop you four did last night? Or see if there's another corridor that Jensen may have doubled around?”
Percival gazed around dubiously. “We pretty much cased the entire joint last night.”
I kept a straight face. Barely. “You sure we checked everything, Bugsy?”
He shrugged.
“I'll try a wall or two,” Prunella said merrily.
“Me, too,” Rey offered excitedly.
“I'll sit.” He dropped into the recamier, realized Jensen's corpse had rested there, and leaped up as if someone had set his Gucci jeans alight.
“I found one.” Linda held up a sturdy cream-colored candle two inches in diameter and eight inches high. “Smells like,” she sniffed and made a face, “liniment.”
No one had a match or lighter, so the oversize candle ended up on an end table.
“Come here guys!”
Rey had discovered a hollow sound behind the wall she was examining, suggesting the presence of open space.
“Kee-rist, how many hidden corridors lead to this little room?” Percival asked, stunned.
“The two leading from opposite directions and this one, if it is one,” I answered, eyeing Rey, who was madly attempting to find a way of shifting the wall.
“Maybe this is a panic room of some sort,” she suggested. “Strange area for a secret place, doncha think?”
“There were different periods in history where families wanted and needed somewhere safe to escape.” Linda stepped alongside her best friend to assist.
“For which period had this one been built?” Percival scanned the room. “Panic rooms, or safe rooms as they're sometimes called, were really more a result of terrorist threats and attacks, and kidnappings. They didn't exist, per se, at the time this house was built.”
“No, but rooms or vaults to conceal valuable possessions, women and children, did. The house has gone through various renovations. This could have been built during the Spanish-American War, the First World War, or maybe even the Second. There were always threats and dangers of one kind or another.” Linda returned to the wall.
“It's certainly a suitable place to hide,” he commented, “but one you could easily perish in if your enemy set fire to the dwelling or cornered you.” His tone sobered and he gazed around nervously. “This room could have become your tomb.”
“Maybe one of the Moones simply wanted a place to get away from the family for a while,” Adwin suggested. “We all like having our own space now and again.”
“Hey people, take a look,” Linda requested. A narrow opening led into more darkness.
“Do we dare?” Prunella asked softly
, peering in. “Good heavens. It smells dusty and old, and wretched – like death.”
Adwin leaned forward into the opening. “Jensen may have found it and decided to hide in it to pull another prank.”
“Or explore,” May-Lee offered.
“He didn't seem the overly curious sort,” Percival said, stepping alongside Adwin.
“Do you suppose someone killed him down there in the foul darkness?” his sister asked skeptically.
“We need light,” Linda said. “What's the point of heading down it if we can't see a thing? For all we know, there's a fifty-foot drop a few yards down. Does absolutely no one have a light for the candle?”
There was no reply.
“Someone is going to have to backtrack and get –”
“Oh, screw it.” Percival pulled a silver lighter from his cardigan pocket and lighted the candle.
“You're smoking again, aren't you?” Prunella asked with obvious disgust. “Probably those vile, reeking French cigarettes. No wonder you've been smelling so minty!”
His expression wavered between apologetic and defensive. “We all need a vice or two.”
She looked furious and gestured the candle, which he quietly passed forward. She eyed him up and down with something akin to loathing. “I'll lead. You, Mr. Tobacco Head, you take up the rear.”
When that gal got mad, she got downright plucky. Rey and I exchanged amused glances while Linda, May-Lee and Adwin fell in silent, cautious step behind Pissed-Off Prunella. Another measured progression began, but at least we could see in the shadowiness – unpleasant things like thick cobwebs and layers of mold, patches of dust and dirt, and scratches and nicks in irregular walls. The sloping floor was rough and strange little things crunched beneath our soles. With the odd pipe-rattling and house-settling sounds that resounded every so often, it made for a perfect slasher setting.
“Stop, Prunella.” I squeezed past the two before me. “Curiosity being what it is, let's check the floor.”
She lowered the candle and we scrutinized old, uneven planking.
Percival asked, “What's that slimy black patch? Blood?”
“It could be oil or jam, or any one of a dozen things. Let's see. We have rodent droppings, a cigarette butt – yours Perc? – and, hmm, this could be old gum.” I stifled a sneeze and rose. The smell and dampness seeped through my skin like a west-coast fog.
