by Tyler Colins
Prunella frowned and continued onward, only to stop thirty feet ahead. “Get closer everyone. We have tight, uneven stairs to descend – and it's a lengthy flight from what I can't see. Be careful everyone. They may not be safe.”
The stairs creaked and groaned, and the air grew thicker, heavier, and damper (and maybe I was growing a little claustrophobic). The descent was painstaking, even if it wasn't that great of one, but all went fairly well considering that everyone was stressed and testy to some degree.
Rey pulled Prunella's arm gently. “Let's take a quick look below again.”
This time we all stooped to see if there was anything to be found, scanning the area as if we were forensic pros.
“We should have brought tweezers and plastic bags,” Percival jested, running a finger cautiously along what appeared to be an old rusty protruding pipe at the base of a cracked wall.
“And a camera and swabs,” Linda chimed in.
“Look at these marks here,” Rey pointed. “These could have been someone being dragged. Whadya think?”
I squatted alongside her and motioned Prunella to pass the candle. “Could be. That looks like a heel mark. And that could be blood.”
“Whose?” Rey asked grumpily. “Jensen's? Or a rat's? Could be anyone's or any thing's.”
“Or it could be our imaginations running wild,” May-Lee suggested.
Rey stood. “Let's show our police pals.”
“They might take umbrage with our having disturbed evidence… If it is evidence,” the antique dealer stated, looking below dubiously.
“We didn't disturb it too much,” Linda said. “And we shouldn't keep this to ourselves.”
“Keep what to ourselves? Mouse crap? Dead bugs and possible scuff marks and blood? Or jam?” Percival snorted. “This hardly qualifies as police-grade 'evidence'.”
“Listen here –”
“Can it kids!” I put a stop to the discord before it got started. “Let's get out of here first. We can decide what to do second.”
“That's a wise idea, dear.” Prunella took charge and started guiding us as if we were a slow-moving human caravan on its way from Kumbum to Lhasa.
16
Fall of the Fungi
We shuffled into a room so dark it was barely possible to see the outline of a chain and light bulb hanging from a low beamed ceiling. In fact, Percival managed to smack his forehead against one of several heavy beams, resulting in a soft but colorful curse. Rey snickered and Linda yanked the thick brassy chain like a frantic passenger might an emergency hand brake in a vintage train. A hundred-watt luster flooded an H-shaped room. Peeling paint clung to chipped bricks while ailing pipes groaned and listed as if age were taking its toll. Asbestos and other unseen toxic substances probably abounded, and you didn't have to see mold and dust to know they were there; you merely had to hear the sneezes and coughs.
Cluttering two corners were canvas-covered chairs and chests, wooden crates, stacked sheets of cardboard and wood panels of different shapes and sizes. In another corner, protected by lightweight see-through plastic, were four French portable trunks with iron handles, eight small trunks with leather edging and corners, and six large storage cases with leather handles, brass clasps and chrome fittings. Also stacked to one side were a dozen vintage Samsonite suitcases in pristine condition, spanning different decades. May-Lee eyed them appraisingly.
“This must be the basement,” Percival murmured.
“Ya think?” Rey asked sarcastically.
“It ain't the attic, sister,” he replied, matching her tone.
Rey raised an eyebrow and smirked, and cast aside a checkered sheet suspended from an old thick cord, which was attached to a pine stepback cupboard and strung to one of six tarnished cast-brass hooks. “Wow, bad art.”
Three, maybe four dozen canvases were stacked against the side of the cupboard. Rey pulled out five. Themes ranged from misshapen fruit to surreal landscapes. If they'd been painted on velvet they might have fetched a couple of bucks at a flea market. Who'd painted them? Reginald or Aunt Mat? I couldn't imagine either as the artist, nor could I see the servants serving as wannabe Picassos. Behind them, tucked into a recess, were long tubes, some skinny and some fat. They sported labels: theater, art shows, and concerts. Posters most likely. Others had big black block letters identifying what was inside: estate, landscaping, township, and state. Maps and blueprints no doubt. I pressed the one marked ESTATE into Adwin's hand.
Next, I pulled open the uppermost cupboard drawers. Old cooking and homemaker magazines, store receipts and recipes were stacked in two of them; unused tea towels, kitchen gadgets and ugly cutlery cluttered another. A bottom drawer revealed boxes of nails and pins and thumbtacks, packages of batteries, and two flashlights. I grabbed the larger of the two and found it worked.
Percival jerked a thumb to the side. “There are stairs over there. Let's get out of this cramped, unpleasant place.”
“Shouldn't we look around?” Rey asked, sounding like a mope.
He sighed. “By all means. Go ahead – alone – Miss Fonne-Weird.”
“That's Fonne-Werde.”
“Well, go ahead and sort through these Goodwill donations. It looks like no one's been down here in a dog's age, so the chance of finding anything of interest or use is highly unlikely.”
Rey's mouth opened, but Linda managed to speak first. “You don't believe Jensen's been down here?”
“There's nothing to indicate he was here, much less met up with his killer,” May-Lee answered, sounding bored.
I picked my way across timeworn floorboards that had seen decades of shoes and boots, lots of dirt and dust and stains, and circled around again. I eyed walls painted wheat once upon a time. “Here are a couple of fingerprints, courtesy of dried blood … or chocolate.”
“If that were Jensen's blood,” Linda commented, stepping alongside me, “there would be lots of it. The man had a hole in his chest the size of a catch basin.”
“Those marks are my doing,” Percival announced. “And yes, it is chocolate.”
We all turned.
He smiled guiltily and wiggled his fingers. “I nibbled a partially melted Godiva bar – dark chocolate with raspberry – in the corridor.”
Rey slapped me on the back. “Good detecting, either way.”
I aimed the flashlight at a small, barely discernible workroom on the far left. “Seeing as we're here, we may as well finish checking out the place. Then we can officially take it off our checked-for-clues list.”
Chain/brake-puller Linda turned on another light. Carpentry and gardening tools were suspended from one wall, discarded kitchen equipment lined shelves on another. Everything was perfectly aligned, not one item one inch farther than the next. “Come here,” she beckoned.
A worktable against the far wall housed old cassette tapes, CDs and DVDs, and books. Most of the tapes were country and classical music, while the other items dealt with the topics of woodworking, art and folklore … and sound effects. One was titled “Haunting Horror Noises & Scares”. That explained the silly spooky sounds.
“Is this for real?” Rey asked dryly.
“It's for show,” I replied, regarding sixteen slender pine stakes that lined steel-wire shelving above the worktable and then running a finger along several. “There's no dust. These have been placed here recently and most likely for our benefit.”
May-Lee appeared baffled. “Someone actually believed one or all of us would be inspired to come down here?”
“He or she wanted to cover all bases. Look at all the fake limbs we found on the property.”
She nodded, then murmured, “Bizarre.”
“It's for show, like my cousin said.” Rey whirled slowly, scanning walls from top to bottom as if consigning every feature to memory.
“What's with the books and vampire slayers? Why down here?” Linda pulled out a thin book on voodoo dolls, peered inside, and frowned. “This little 'show' isn't up to your aunt's usual standards
. I'd expect more from an eccentric lady having fun from the Great Beyond. Why didn't we find a coffin, a giant mummy, or a headless body?” Putting back the book, she picked up a wooden stake and eyed it critically. “We have two dead guys, one possibly murdered and one definitely murdered.” She returned the stake and scrutinized the others. “These look similar to the one Jensen had sticking in his chest.”
“Maybe Jensen was in the process of getting this place set up for another prank and got in someone's way,” Adwin conjectured. “That would explain the partial stab at creating Scary Basement 101.”
As everyone considered his assumption, I noticed an old vent on the wall above his head and pointed. “Maybe you're right. He may have been planning on sending more spooky sounds up that way.”
“But where's the equipment to play the spooky sound effects?” Rey motioned the room impatiently. “I don't buy it.”
“Buy what?” Adwin asked wryly. “Another pair of Manolo Blahnik knock-offs?”
Heat emanated from her blazing glare.
“Maybe he had a portable player,” I suggested. “Or maybe he had help.”
Linda looked perplexed. “From one of us?”
Prunella asked, “Or one of the servants?”
“I don't see Beatrice as much of a jokester,” I replied.
“Porter's too introverted and unsociable,” Rey offered.
May-Lee advised, “Hubert's too old, overly serious, and very by the books.”
“We're back to square one,” I said dully, “which is nowhere.”
“Not necessarily,” Percival said, “I believe we all concur that Jensen Moone came down here. This has helped fit together some puzzle pieces and while far from complete, a petite part of the picture is visible.”
We murmured something akin to agreement, although Rey appeared somewhat blank.
“The plot thickens,” Adwin jested. “Where's Inspector Clouseau when you need him?”
I gave his arm a playful punch.
“Let's summarize before we move on, so that we share the same 'petite piece of the picture',” May-Lee proposed. “Jensen came down here, started setting up for another Mathilda Moone let's-frighten-the-guests trick, was distracted – or was called away by a potential partner – and ended up in the hidden corridors where he was murdered.”
“Sounds reasonable. I like it,” Rey nodded.
Linda agreed.
I pointed to a half-dozen stairs leading up. “Folks, let's move onward and upward.”
The procession ascended. A narrow door at the top opened easily and quietly as we stepped into the pantry. Strange. How come we'd not noticed the door when we'd been in here before? I glanced back. It was painted the same color as the walls and the small doorknob was the same color as the door. Add to that the fact we'd been preoccupied with freezers and casks and crates, never mind a mutual fondness for cookies, and small wonder it had gone unnoticed.
“Look at you,” Rey jibed, poking her friend's dirt-streaked cheek.
“You're no belle of the ball with that gunk on your chin and that weal on your forehead,” Linda snapped.
“Man, someone's sure touchy –”
“Someone's tired and in need of a piping-hot espresso and another shower,” Linda interrupted, brushing past her with a scowl.
Percival laughed and Prunella chuckled. Rey tossed her head and followed her friend into the hallway, the rest of us trooping behind. Above the oven, a sardine (or maybe it was a herring) clock informed us it was fifteen minutes past six; it felt as if it should have been fifteen after midnight.
“I smell,” Adwin sniffed, “soup.” He ambled to the oven on which sat three pieces of cast-iron cookware, one of which was simmering on very low. “I guess Porter's going to be serving dinner after all.” He removed the lid to the first pot. Having all but stuck his face into the cocotte, he announced, “We have vegetable soup – heavy with sliced mushrooms.”
“I thought the poor man had taken enough sedatives to fell an elephant,” Linda said, bemused, scratching her scabbed nose.
“Maybe Beatrice is filling in,” I suggested. “Someone must sub for the cook when he's off.”
“The soup sounds boring. What else we got?” Rey asked.
My beau checked the second cocotte and frowned. “It's a mixture of uncooked potato, celery and carrot. Could be fixings for Shepherd's Pie or stew.”
“Neither sounds appealing,” Linda said with a sigh. She stepped alongside him and removed the lid to the third and largest pot. Steam rose. The lid clattered to the cork floor. “Ouch, dang, hot – whoa Nelly! The mushroom king has been dethroned.”
Adwin looked in. “Holy crap.”
The rest of us dashed forward. In the immense pot rested a head reminiscent of a giant peanut shell. Incredulity traversed each face in the kitchen like a Sierra Nevada mudslide. Porter stared back with equal amazement.
“How unoriginal. The head-in-the-pot scene has been done so many times,” Rey said sardonically. Then she fainted. Right into Percival's arms.
He looked from her to the pot and back again.
“That's so unlike her.” Linda grabbed a tea towel and started flapping it before Rey's pale face.
“She probably passed out more from lack of food than fright,” Prunella commented dryly. “This girl has more balls than any man I've met.”
“Or it all caught up to her,” Adwin suggested, helping Percival settle her on the floor.
“I vote for lack of food and too much booze and excitement over the last couple of days.” I grabbed the tea towel from Linda, ran it under cold water, and placed it to my cousin's forehead. After several seconds, she moaned and opened her eyes, looked around, and quickly shut them again.
“Something we said?” Percival's smile bordered on snide.
“There you are. Are you folks doing more body searching?” Lewis asked cheerfully as he ambled into the kitchen, swinging an empty mug. He might have been taking a walk in the park. He glanced at Rey, who was struggling into a seated position and gazing dazedly from one face to another. “Miss, are you ahright?”
She nodded and pulled on Adwin's reedy thigh to push herself up.
“Everyone's left save Gwynne and myself. Weathah's getting worse by the minute. Powah lines are down in parts south of here and there's a fifteen-car pile-up close to the station. You'd think people didn't listen to weathah warnings. I'm going to check on the cahs on the driveway and see if we can move ount.” He looked doubtful.
“You can't.” I pointed to the pot.
The sparkle in the sea-green eyes dimmed. “Please don't tell me that's nawt chowdah in there.”
“Okay.”
Lewis drew a deep breath and peered in. “Gwynne!”
* * *
“So, Miss Fonne, that's all for now,” Lewis said with an unreadable smile as he closed a new small, thick notepad he'd found in a kitchen drawer. I suspected he was more comfortable with the old-school approach. He motioned a tall muscular female cop who'd arrived twenty minutes ago after an hour-long drive through increasingly perilous conditions. She was standing by – guarding – the first-floor rear guestroom door. “I hate to ask, Jeana, but would you mind getting coffee? Put in double the usual sugah for me, please. I got that Sayahs couple coming in next –”
“They're brother and sister,” I clarified, staring pointedly at the brunette.
She was scanning my face as if she were a human lie detector device, determining whether she was in the company of a crazed killer. Jeana, too, offered an unreadable smile and turned to Lewis. “Two coffees coming up.” She marched from the large L-shaped room like someone who could as easily have been embarking on a major drug bust as fetching liquid caffeine.
“Do you have any theories as to who the killer may be?” he asked casually, standing before an oak drop-front desk, and stretching arms upward and behind.
I shook my head. “Do you?”
He smirked and stretched again.
I looked him sq
uare in the eye. “Like the other two, Thomas Saturne was murdered, wasn't he?”
Gripping the back of a press-back rocker, he stared for a long while. “He ovahdosed on a prescription drug called quinapril –”
“Which is used for treating high blood pressure and heart failure, and for preventing kidney failure due to hypertension and diabetes. Cousin Otto takes it.” I stood before one of two tall domed windows veiled by beaded light-gray lace curtains, hearing the glass being assailed by a mixture of sleet and freezing rain. When the snow finally arrived, it would be heavy and dangerous. Suspended transit services, parking bans, and city-wide precautions were already in place in abundance in nearby counties and states, but hopefully, resulting storm outages would be at a minimum.
“Thomas Saturne only stahted taking it recently. That's why the man was all rashed ount. It seems to be a side effect for first-time takers. But whoever decided to kill him wanted to be really sure they succeeded … so he was also shot with curare.”
The puncture wound. I whirled. “Shot? Like with a dart gun?”
“Like with a blowgun – a.40 calibah. He had a tiny hole here.” He pointed to a spot below his neck. “It makes you think of old-time James Bond and the KGB.”
The weapon did seem rather Cold War and spy-like. And totally unbelievable. But Percival had joked about a blowgun, so maybe it wasn't that farfetched a concept. I moved aside a lace panel and stared past misty, crusted glass. Nothing on the property was visible, save for shrubs immediately outside, and they looked like they'd not last the night; their spindly, ice-encrusted limbs were dragging the ground.
“Poor Thomas. He must have realized what was going on, but couldn't tell anyone because of the paralysis factor. No wonder he was so still and quiet.” I sighed. “But why kill him?”
“That's what we're going to find ount… There was one more thing.”
I turned. “What?”
“He'd also ingested Poison Hemlock. It was in his tea or drink.”
