by Tyler Colins
“You're joking, right? He was murdered three times?”
His gaze grew more solemn. “If the curare didn't relax him to the point of asphyxia, the Poison Hemlock would have caused any numbah of problems, like respiratory paralysis. And if neither of those got him, the ovahdose of quinapril might've done the trick… Do you know anyone that hated the fellah enough to want to kill him three times ovah?”
“He wasn't overly friendly, but no one in our group expressed or demonstrated animosity toward him, not openly anyway.”
“What about people ountside the group?”
I arched my shoulders. “I don't know anything about the personal lives of the deceased men. Like Thomas, Jensen probably annoyed a few people and clients in his day – he could be bombastic. The cook? We were all getting very tired of the many mushroom dishes, so in his case, it could have been any one of us.” I smiled dryly.
A loud forceful knock preceded Jeana's entrance. If the six-foot-tall officer was surprised to see me still there, she didn't show it, merely strode forward with purpose, plastic tray in hand, and placed it on an oak side table. He grabbed a large ceramic mug and half a tuna sandwich; she grabbed the other mug and took up her previous post.
“Time for me to make a few phone calls,” I said with forced cheer. “Maybe catch a show or two after.”
“Good luck. The winds and ice may hamper that.” Although he offered a benign smile, his gaze was stern. “Like I'm telling everyone in the group, don't plan on going anywhere for the time being.”
I smirked. “I take it that's an order Sheriff Lewis?”
He grinned. “Professional advice.”
“Fortunately for you, thanks to Mother Nature, we have no choice but to accept that advice.” I jerked a thumb at the window as strong winds and frozen precipitation thwacked glass. “I guess you'll be staying put, too … for the time being.”
The grin dimmed.
17
Olly Olly Oxen Free
Adwin blew into thinly gloved hands to warm them up in the frosty evening. “Why are we out here? This weather's insane.”
We were huddled beside a wide-slated redwood garden bench at the rear of the Moone cottage-studio-guesthouse (we hadn't yet figured what purpose it served). It was after nine and the mid-November night was more like late January in Buffalo: bitter and bracing. Our matching American Apparel hooded fleece jackets, worn under heavy oversize men's raincoats courtesy of a walk-in closet stocked with a sundry of outerwear, did little to halt the north-easterly 40MPH winds from freezing flesh.
“One, to get downtime from the group. Two, to put our heads together.”
“I'd prefer to put something else together – and in the main house, where it's warm and dry. Forget this oversize toolshed, or whatever it is.”
Funny, I don't believe I'd ever heard teeth actually chattering before, but his were. And how. I gave his sodden chin a playful squeeze. “Privacy is a misnomer in the Moone manse, so personal moments are few and far between.”
“That is so sadly true.” He squinted through the slapping wetness at an obscured sky. “People are going to wonder where we are.”
“People as in Rey?”
“Or the police. But knowing your cousin, carrot cake, she's probably forming a search party at this very moment.”
I chuckled and eyed the small building. “The first night, I thought I saw a light in here. Then I decided it was merely a reflection – moonlight or stars bouncing off the glass or the pond. Now I'm wondering if maybe, just maybe, our killer was in here.”
“Doing what? Hiding?”
“That. Or looking for something. Maybe making plans and/or organizing murder weapons and tools. Or possibly concealing something.”
“The best laid plans of –”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” I chuckled and turned to an ice-coated wall and did a quick assessment. “There are no secret panels here, that's for sure.”
“Forget about secret panels, tea loaf. What you need is a magic hairpin that will unlock the door so we can get in.”
With a sly smile I reached beneath the raincoat into a small tote I'd slung over one shoulder. “How about a hammer, courtesy of Aunt Mat's unnerving but orderly cellar?”
My bumbleberry tart grimaced and groaned when he heard the crackle-crunch. “You're going to have to replace that window.”
I stepped over shards of glass, yanked Adwin inside, closed the door, and smoothed the pleated polyester blinds across the shattered pane. A raincoat sleeve had ripped when I'd slipped an arm through the shattered pain; jagged glass had missed flesh by a hair. “Feel for a light switch, but don't turn it on until I tell you.”
“I doubt anyone would see any light from the house given the weather, but hold on – okay, I've got one.”
Fumbling around, I made sure all four blinds were fully drawn. “Now.”
Light the color of lemon gelato illuminated a cozy room.
He pulled down his hood and rubbed a Rudolph-red nose as he studied the interior. “It's nice, but nothing spectacular.”
Adwin was right: it was a pleasant little cottage, and that was all. A faux Rayo lamp rested on a narrow counter running the length of what could qualify as a kitchenette. The walls were warm beige, like a skim-milk latte, the ceiling and crown molding whipping-cream white, the rug – perhaps Persian – spotless and a perfect complement to the interior. Two items of furniture were covered with freshly-washed sheets, but it was obvious one piece was a rocking chair and the other a small sofa or loveseat.
Wiping excess water from my face, I stepped toward a studio in the north-east corner, where sheets draped an artist's easel and model's stool. To their side was an old, large oval mirror with a thick braided gilt frame.
It hadn't been cool inside when we'd entered, but the newly created airway was letting in the outside chill. I glanced around and noticed a small thermostat to the left of the kitchen. Up a few degrees it went.
“Maybe we'd better clean up the mess. I see a broom by the garbage bin.” Adwin strolled forward determinedly. “Check if there's cardboard or plastic around to cover up the broken window.”
“Aye, aye.” I saluted and opened the door of a large pine shelving unit. Inside were tubes and jars of paint, brushes, watercolor pads of various sizes, pencils and pens, and miscellaneous art paraphernalia. Now we knew where the cellar paintings had been rendered.
“It seems pretty darn clean in here.”
“Huh?” I was engrossed in removing thick cardboard backings from three large pads. They would make for a decent makeshift window covering until morning, when I could locate more permanent covering back in the house.
“It looks and smells sanitary in here, like cleaning products have been used.”
“The servants probably clean on a regular basis,” I said, grabbing a roll of masking tape.
He sniffed. “It also smells like a lady with good taste in perfume has been here.”
I sniffed. J'adore by Dior. A favorite of Aunts Mat and Sue Lou.
“Why is this place spick and span, and why are parts of the main house not?”
“Budget constraints? Tight schedules?” I ripped six long pieces of tape and affixed the cardboard to the broken window. Speaking of clean, the windows inside were exceptionally so, while those on the exterior were as dirty as Lower Manhattan alleyways. “Why go to the bother of cleaning the inside and not the outside?”
“What?” Adwin was concentrated on sweeping glass into a paper bag.
“The windows are spotless on the inside and filthy on the outside.”
“Maybe an agoraphobic lives here.” He smiled weakly and started picking carefully at the broom for tiny bits of glass. “To be honest my sweet potato pie, this place unnerves me a little.”
“Really? I find it comfy and homey compared to the house.” I leaned into a wall. “Care to have a quick verbal toss-around with what we know?”
“We don't know that much, but sure.” Returning the broom,
he perched himself on the edge of the rocking chair. “Our first two dead guys were fairly successful, sat on boards and committees, and attended functions.” Adwin snapped his fingers. “We can't forget that Thomas Saturne had an affair with Prunella.”
“At this stage, we can only assume he had one and that's really Rey's assumption. Percival told me his sister and Thomas were on the same board. Those photos we saw simply showed two smiling –”
“Fixated and totally tanked people –”
“With no confirmed intimate relationship.”
“Moving on,” he said with a roll of the eyes. “You were going to tell me about two phone calls you had before I got dragged to the sheriff's inquisition.”
I sat on the stool. “You want the so-so news first or the super exciting news first?”
“You've got news more super exciting than the fact that Thomas was murdered three different ways?” He smiled wryly. “Let's start with the so-so.”
“Gloria Laplante has been – had beenThomas' secretary for fifteen years. She was shocked to hear of his death on a noonday news show and as his assistant, she was more than outraged having learned of it via media and not an official visit or call. As she said,” I switched to a Brooklyn accent, “ 'I shoulda been properly informed, ya know, coz I'm his right-hand girl, the second in command, ya know'.”
Adwin simulated a loud yawn.
I stuck out my tongue. “You didn't have to listen to ten minutes of snooze stuff before hearing something of note.”
“Such as?”
“Such as Thomas had been a very discreet man in every sense of the word before he got involved with a woman who could have been – and I quote again – 'a walking advertisement for hippie and nudie health-nuts'.”
“There you go.” Adwin pointed. “Prunella Sayers.”
“We'd still be assuming. The description of the woman was vague and a lot of people – like the Sayers – are into organics and cotton, and planet preservation.”
A loud sigh drifted across the cottage. “What's the 'super exciting' news?”
“A man by the name of Harold Watermaker sat on two boards with Thomas and had known him for twenty years. They'd never been true buddies, but had hung out together now and again.” I leaned forward. “Guess where they hung out.”
“I couldn't and wouldn't even begin to guess,” he said with enough dryness to leave you thirsting for a gallon of water.
“The race tracks. They both loved placing big bets.”
Adwin's eyes widened. “They were hardcore gamblers?”
“Harold admitted he'd lost his house, bombshell wife, and cruiser racer to gents that made the bad guys in vintage Cagney and Bogart films seem like choir boys. Fortunately, his sister got him into Gamblers Anonymous and he pulled his life around.”
“Not so for Thomas?”
“Harold told me that Thomas continued to go for 'bigger and better odds', but Thomas also had Lady Luck on his side – most of the time. After Harold started attending GA meetings, they rarely spoke or saw each other, but he heard that Thomas' exceptional luck started swinging between pretty good and really really bad. He suggested I try contacting someone who used to go by the name of Lay-a-Wager Waynie, who has since seen the light, and prefers the name he was born with: Wayne Antici. These days he lives in Boston from April to September and Tallahassee the other months.”
“And?”
I smiled smugly. “I got telephone numbers and left messages for Wayne to call either my cell or the main Moone number.”
“… As your crazy cousin would say: I don't buy it.”
“You don't think Thomas' gambling buddies might have come after him here?”
“I can't see those kinds of thugs using three means of murder. They just break multiple limbs or shoot a .22 into the cranium, don't they?”
“Maybe they felt it safer and easier to have paid one of us to take care of Thomas. And if we're novices to murder, we might want to make sure we're successful by using three alternative methods.”
“I don't buy that, either. I suppose curare and Poison Hemlock and quinti-whatever are easy enough to procure and crush up, and mix into a drink or something. But you'd have to know how his medication would react, or what would transpire when taken in large amounts –”
“Most meds are dangerous, if not lethal, when taken in large amounts –”
“But they produce different symptoms and effects.” Adwin shook his head. “It's like creating a dessert. You have to have the precise amount – the right combination – to obtain the perfect result.”
I eyed the talented pastry chef thoughtfully. “So Thomas' murderer would have had to have known about plants and poisons, and prescriptions… . Not to mention knowing as much as possible about Thomas Saturne himself.”
“Or he'd have to have planned the murder well in advance and learned everything and anything about plants, poisons, and prescriptions … and Thomas Saturne himself.”
Hadn't I said that? “But no one knew that far in advance that Aunt Mat was going to hold this crazy win-your-inheritance affair. We were only informed three weeks ago.”
“That's plenty of time to gather information. And people could have had access to her will, thereby having learned of this weeks ago,” he said pointedly. “Regardless, if someone were consumed with killing Thomas, they'd have planned the details and waited for the perfect opportunity to perform the dastardly deed.” Winds sounding like lamenting spirits circled the building. Adwin glanced around anxiously and crossed his arms. “When you intend to off someone – if you're any kind of thinking, reasoning person – you'd plan it to the letter.”
I nodded. “What about Jensen? Who'd want to off him? The same person who offed Thomas? A stake in the heart seems a spur-of-the-moment act.”
“It may have been the same person, but not necessarily. Maybe Jensen rubbed Thomas' murderer the wrong way. Or he stumbled onto something he shouldn't have. I'm inclined to believe that, because Thomas was annoying with a capital A. The killer simply couldn't take him anymore and put him out of everyone's misery.”
“Where does Porter fit in?”
“Someone got tired of his mushrooms?” Adwin joked.
“I suggested that to Lewis,” I grinned. “Another day of fungi and I might have done the 'dastardly deed'.”
“He must have witnessed something,” Adwin said, standing. “Why else kill an innocent chef?”
“What could he have witnessed?”
“The guy seemed so wordless when we found him in the garage.”
“The guy was in shock.”
“He looked more – I don't know – zoned-out than shocked.”
Porter had appeared rather trance-like. Zombie-like. The blood drop near his fat thumb flashed before me. “Maybe …”
“Yes?”
“He was drugged – courtesy of a blowgun.”
“Like Thomas Saturne was?”
“Exactly. Maybe it wasn't curare in Porter's case, or maybe it was a smaller dosage, or maybe he'd removed the tiny dart – hey!” I jumped up. “If Thomas was hit by a tiny dart and it wasn't physically stuck in his neck –”
“Then maybe it's still in the sofa or on the rug, or somewhere,” he finished doubtfully. “Lewis or one of his people would have found it.”
“The sheriff didn't mention finding anything.” I frowned. Was the Massachusetts native holding back facts? That was his right, of course, but if he was, I'd have given up Godiva chocolate for six months to know them. “As for Porter, it's too soon to know what caused his death –”
“Besides the obvious beheading?” Adwin asked darkly.
I made a face. “I was referring more to how he became head-less. I can't see Porter allowing himself to be decapitated willingly.” Again, I thought of the blood on his thumb. “The man had to have been drugged.”
“He would have had to been drugged before the garage episode, which could have been at any time and in any place. As for Thomas, he would have h
ad to have been shot with the blowgun after we gathered in the drawing room, because he didn't have that mark you noticed at dinner … or did he?”
I thought about it and shook my head. “It was after dinner, I'm certain, and the person responsible would have wanted to make sure no evidence was found –”
“So he or she would have removed it.”
“Wow,” I breathed, realizing the ramifications of Adwin's comment.
He whistled softly. “It is one of us.”
“I agree.” I wagged a finger. “Yet I can't entirely dismiss the possibility that it could be someone yet unknown. He or she may have been hiding beyond a wall or painting. As we've discovered, the house has a few secret places.”
“That also means that he or she would have had to have an accomplice, which still points to one of us.”
“Maybe we should talk to Lewis,” I suggested.
“And tell him what? The obvious? Something he's probably already considered?”
I arched a shoulder. “It seems worth sharing.”
“It'll have to wait. He was meeting with a creepy-looking guy with no forehead and Black Molly eyes who's been floating around the house for the last couple of hours. The guy drove in on a Ski-Doo and brought bags and stuff. I hope he leaves soon. If you think Gwynne is surly, this guy's outright disagreeable.” He gazed around warily. “I've got a weird feeling … like someone is watching.”
I scanned walls, furniture, floors, the cherry- and olive-colored kitchenette, and a tall polished mahogany arch-top mirror in a far corner. “Olly olly oxen free. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
“That's not funny, dumpling buns.”
I moved across the floor and hooked his arm. “I could use a big mug of hot cocoa.”
“Really? You mean, no more detecting or hanging around bone-chilling places?” He looked as hopeful as a kid waiting to hear if his I-feel-sick complaint had worked and he'd be staying home from school.
“No more detecting for us tonight,” I confirmed, guiding him to the door.
18
What a Surprise
When I returned to the cottage a couple of hours later, it was exactly as Adwin and I had left it, albeit a little crisper. Accelerating winds, which been fairly escalated before, hadn't yet thrust the new makeshift window aside; they were too busy assaulting shrubbery, trees, and any living entities foolish enough to be outside. They'd also chilled my face several painful degrees as I'd made a lengthy slippy-slide dash from the house to the cottage. I ran a gloved hand across my forehead. Surprising. There was no mask of rime.
