by Tyler Colins
“A good fifteen months ago, when his gambling got completely out of hand and he was being threatened by associates. Prunella wasn't making his life any easier by suggesting he propose to her. When she gave him an ultimatum – 'gambling or me' – he refused to meet her demand.”
I took a moment to collect thoughts. “It's possible then that Thomas is – was – your culprit. And Prunella was also involved, either through him and/or Percival.”
She gazed at me solemnly. “Or solely.”
“Let's say she was involved with Thomas, and it ended on a sour note –”
“Then he'd want to be as free of her as she would him. It depends on who initiated the let's-dupe-Reginald-and-Mathilda-Moone scheme. Being ex-lovers is one thing, ex-partners-in-crime another. Affairs of the heart and libido become so much more complicated when criminality's involved, don't you think?”
I sighed, feeling deflated. Where did one take it from here? How come answers didn't come as readily in real life as they did in two-hour mystery shows? “Why bring the rest of us here?”
“The gathering had to look legitimate. I'd planned to enlist your personal aid sooner than later. Things got …”
“Out of hand?”
“Who'd have expected Thomas to kick the damn bucket?”
“He was murdered – as Jensen was and as Porter was.”
She scanned my face. “Obviously no one has yet been arrested for any crimes, but do we have an idea who the murderer may be?”
“… I'm tempted to place Prunella at the top of the list. Scorned women make for good suspects. Scorned and betrayed women make for even better suspects. But who knows? Maybe one of those associates who'd been threatening Thomas had done the deed.”
“And gotten around the property and house without having been seen by anyone?” She shook her head. “No, I don't believe that's possible.”
“What about the secret passageways and concealed nooks and crannies and niches? They could have sneaked through them.”
She shook her head again. “No. That's not possible.”
That theory wasn't meeting approval by anyone who heard it. But as Adwin and I had discussed earlier, considering timing and everything, if had to be someone in the group. Still, I couldn't completely discount the notion of an outside source. Not yet anyway. “What about Jensen? He said you'd asked him to play pranks.”
“He was helping me have fun.” Her smile was that of a little girl's, one who was certain she'd played the best April Fool's joke ever. “A few months ago, when more and more was coming to light and the concept for this seven-day affair was beginning to bud, I told him that when my time came, I wanted to have a big laugh from the Afterlife. Spooking my dearest friends and family seemed 'frightfully fun' and – for the customary legal fee – he agreed to help. He never wanted to know more than necessary and didn't ask questions.”
“What about Percival? He has a pretty odd relationship with his sister.”
“She has fifty-percent control in all his ventures, so they have a tight professional bond. And, technically, they're half brother and sister. They shared the same wing-ding father.”
“It's still odd,” I said flatly.
Aunt Mat smiled darkly. “They became an item about twenty-five, maybe thirty years ago, so scuttlebutt had it.”
“And scuttlebutt claimed they lasted as an 'item' for … ?”
“Well over a decade. Actually, closer to two.”
“That's …”
“Weird?”
“Disturbingly creepy.”
Aunt Mat offered a flat smile. “Almost as much as May-Lee having been married for two months to Percival when they were in their late teens.”
Thump.
She gazed down, extended her hand, and helped me back into the seat.
19
A Tale with Two Tails
It was six in the morning, hours since I'd left Aunt Mat and the corridor. I'd crashed in her bedroom, not having wanted to awaken the sleepy pastry chef and his newfound pet, which would surely accompany us back to Wilmington if Aunt Mat didn't put a stop to it. Sleep had been deep but brief. I could have used lots more shut-eye, but three murders, a madcap aunt, an array of weird guests, and a happy-go-lucky ghost required attention.
As for the cigarette butt, someone had beaten me to it. Gone it was. Of course, I could have taken a wrong turn, but that was doubtful. A shiver capered up my spine as an image of that dark, dank place burst before my eyes like a Flashcube on an Instamatic camera.
I dropped to the side of the bed and jostled Adwin's shoulder, prompting him to groan and Fred to crawl under the covers.
“Huh? What?” Adwin gazed up blearily.
“She's alive!”
“Are you talking about The Head with Two Brains? Or is that The Brain with Two Heads?” He shifted onto bony scarred elbows and appeared genuinely concerned that he'd gotten B-movie titles confused.
“Aunt Matty – she's alive!” I grabbed a fur-shrouded pillow that Fred had obviously slept on and hit Adwin lightly in the head.
“Did you have a wild dream? Or has lack of sleep contributed to figments of the imagination?” He struggled out of bed and grabbed a flannel robe to cover a white T-shirt and cupcake-themed boxer shorts. He lurched into the bathroom, then peered around the doorframe. “I know! You opted for an early liquid breakfast. Maybe I'll opt for the same. A Mint Julep might be the best way to get through what will – without doubt – be another wacky day.” The bathroom door closed and water started running.
I sighed and grabbed the laptop and Smartphone. Why waste time sitting around? I'd already showered, slapped on makeup, and changed into jeans and a thick jet-black wool sweater with huge fuchsia snowflakes. At this hour, I couldn't see Beatrice or Hubert preparing breakfast, or anyone else dragging his or her tail downstairs, so the kitchen would almost certainly be empty. I could whip up toast and tea. And if I was really inclined, I could assemble breakfast for the troupe: toasted English muffins, boiled eggs, oatmeal and coffee. Yeah, and an Indian monsoon would blow into Connecticut any moment.
Two chai teas and three slices of toasted rye with blackberry jam later, I was pounding at the keyboard, running more searches on the first two dead gents. Nothing earth-shattering surfaced so I moved on to the third corpse. Porter the cook, also known as Ralph Bloom-Walters and “Crackers” to his jailhouse buddies, was an interesting individual. As co-owner of a popular NYC hotspot in the early 80s, Porter/Ralph/Crackers was arrested for embezzlement. There was also mention of poison in a porcini sauce that took out mobster Jimmy Jojo James in said hotspot, but it was never proven who the killer was. There was lots of speculation, though, with Crackers' name placed amid twenty known Jimmy Jojo James haters. Murder never proven, Crackers did nine months for misappropriation.
I Googled again and discovered that Ralph Bloom-Walters had ended up cooking at Le Cochon Volant, an upscale French restaurant in San Fran in the mid nineties. It received six excellent reviews, five good ones, and one negative one. One day, the restaurant exploded like an over-poached perogy. Debris flew, glass shattered, and flames cavorted amid the chaos. Shock waves were felt blocks away. Bad wiring was cited as the source, but two journalists weren't sold on faulty circuitry as the cause. One suggested family crime connections of co-owner Benton Wiffleton and/or overdue funding payments acquired through questionable sources, could have played a part. The other insinuated that purposeful manipulation of gas connections may have generated the explosion.
Of the several persons knocked off their chairs, five suffered minor injuries while two people were seriously hurt: a food critic and his companion. Apparently the one who'd written the negative review had been enticed to return – financially, no doubt. Why else would he have come back to a place that served filet mignon “as succulent and savory as beef jerky left in a lost camper's knapsack” and sautéed vegetables “resembling desiccated krill”? Accident or otherwise, talk about bad timing.
You had to wond
er: did Crackers get his nickname because he liked Saltines or because he was a few bolts shy?
Linda strolled into the kitchen dressed in a black A-line skirt and bubble-gum-pink silk blouse with a black cardigan slung from one shoulder. She looked particularly bright-eyed and perky. “I slept like a log.”
I smiled. “You look great.” And she did. Even with a thick coating of make-up blobbed on the ugly scrape on her nose.
“Wish I could say the same for you. Those dark bags look like they could fit five suits and ten sweaters.”
I ran fingertips under my eyes. They did feel dry and puffy. It was probably time to apply Nivea Eye Cream – with a spatula.
“Is there any breakfast to be had?”
I jerked a thumb at the mammoth fridge. “You're on your own. I highly recommend rye bread, toasted, with jam or honey.”
Linda laughed and started preparing a pot of coffee. “What're you looking at?”
“Porter. It seems the cook was a man with a checkered past.”
“You're talking about the prison term, right?”
I all but goggled. “You know?”
She poured cream into a mug with multi-colored air balloons on it. “I learned that last night. I did a search on him, the two dead guys, and the Sayers – you know, to see if anything weird stood out.”
Great minds think alike. “Do you have anything of note to share?”
Out of the fridge came a loaf of sliced rye bread, jar of blueberry jam, and stick of butter. “Did you know Prunella got arrested once? She never served time. The charges got dropped: the witnesses recanted.”
“Arrested? For what?” I grinned. “Leading a demonstration to save the Green-bellied Seersucker Warbler?”
Linda laughed hysterically as she watched the coffeemaker start to work its magic. Whatever she'd popped I wanted a dozen of. “She had a partnership in a highbrow restaurant in San Francisco that blew up in the 90s. A well-known restaurant critic got hurt. So did Prunella. She was with him when it happened. The co-owner, who owned a fair share of the place – unlike Porter's token percentage – was a stuffed shirt with too much money and time. His name was Benton Merkston Wiffleton. He ate bad sushi in 1997 and died.”
Obviously I'd not read the right article. I should have been more thorough with search parameters, but in fairness, I'd not been at it that long; I'd have stumbled onto the additional details eventually. But wasn't this getting interesting if not complicated? Had Prunella known that the Moone mansion cook was the same one that had worked at Le Cochon Volant and that he'd owned a “token percentage”? How could she not? But during a phone chat with Aunt Mat a couple of years back, she'd mentioned Porter was an introverted cook who preferred to remain out of the limelight, regardless of how a guest gushed or cooed over a meal. I remembered her commenting on how shy and humble he was, how he'd never show his face. It was entirely possible he'd remained hidden in the Moone kitchen and out of Prunella's sight. Yeah, and penguins could fly. He'd been in my aunt's employ since about 2003, when Sergey, the first cook, decided to move his aging body to Arizona. How was it possible for a guest to never see the cook? It wasn't.
“Was she arrested because they thought she could have had something to do with the 'accident'?”
Linda popped four slices of bread into a mint-green retro toaster. “No, she got arrested because once she was out of the hospital she went after Wiffleton and Bloom-Walters, aka Porter, with a frozen swordfish.” She smiled grimly. “She claimed they were to blame for her emotional state and financial problems. Apparently she really loved that place and had invested her heart and soul – and several thousand dollars – into it. I think she may have had a thing for the critic, too. Maybe they broke up after the accident, or maybe he blamed her for it. I read that some individuals weren't even sure it was an accident, but there wasn't enough evidence to prove otherwise.”
She pulled out a plate and knife, and prepared a simple breakfast. “Culinary critics are like actors, Jill. They have mega egos. Who knows what really happened? Did guy #1 tick off guy #2 and, as a result, guy #2 decided to exact revenge? Or was it truly nothing more than a misfortunate accident? As for Pruney Sayers, she's not about to confide in us. But we can all attest to the fact she's more than a bit out there.”
She was a bit out there, all right, but enough to commit murder? Well, she'd gone after two men with a frozen xiphias gladius, hadn't she? That meant she had a violent streak, or at least a heated one. Being injured and scarred during an explosion, intentionally set or otherwise, could ignite a mental or emotional fuse. How intensive was the scarring on Prunella's chest? Did it matter? A little or a lot, I'd have been pissed, too.
“Apparently she lived in San Fran for a few weeks during spring months throughout the 90s. Various charities and foundations took her to different states over the years, but she's solely New England bound these days.” She chuckled. “Can you see Prunella Sayers, hippie crusader and bird lover, taking a swing at someone with a swordfish?”
I chuckled. It did seem absurd, but then stranger things had been known to happen. And, very recently, they had.
* * *
At 9:00 a.m. everyone was in the small dining room – two of us musing, one obsessed with Angry Birds while sucking a green-apple lollipop, one reading Farmer's Almanac, one perusing Julia Childs' The French Chef Cookbook, and one playing with cold butter-soaked toast. Another stood at the window watching a couple of foolish media folks beyond the gate, shivering beside company vans under sodden, polar conditions. No doubt they were hoping for another body.
“Don't they have better things to do, like filming stranded people or mangled vehicles?” Prunella adjusted a lace valance and sighed loudly.
The group hadn't exchanged more than twenty words prior to her comment. We all looked worn, maybe a little worried. I'm not sure if the prevalent question on everyone's mind was, “Who the heck is next to greet the Grim Reaper?” or “When the [insert preferred expletive] do we get to leave?”
“I heard a cute reporter on a cheesy community news program say something about the 'medieval and morose Moone mansion' – uh, hmm.” Adwin's expression changed from animated to perplexed as he brought a coffee cup to his lips.
“I was right behind you and heard the same report. She wasn't cute, not with that overbite – she looked like Mr. Ed. She said 'triple murders make for a frightening fiasco at the former' – uh, dang. I forgot.” Linda frowned, placed the tablet on the table, and stood.
Percival snorted. “The young lad with effete features and voice said, and I quote: 'freakish shenanigans result in three deaths at the –' ”
“ 'Freakish shenanigans' my ass,” Linda snapped, waving the lollipop like a conductor might a baton during the climax of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. The meds must have worn off.
“My goodness. Don't we look as cross as avid concert goers who've just been told the headline act is delayed on another continent?”
Beatrice ceased rearranging napkins. Hubert barely managed to place a shaky cup on an even shakier saucer. Prunella blanched and Percival's breath caught in his throat. Adwin merely hugged Julia to his chest and May-Lee ceased shifting toast.
“Aunt Mat! Jeez! Holy crap!” Rey appeared more insulted than shocked. Standing akimbo, glittery bangles jangled as they hit a silver knock-off Prada belt.
Linda tittered and slapped her thigh, humor apparently restored.
I swung around the sexagenarian and pecked a lightly rouged cheek. “You look as lovely as always.”
Happy, pretty, stylish: that was Aunt Mat. Estrada did her justice, but the woman would look good in bargain-basement specials.
“What's the idea?” Rey demanded.
“It's a wee bit of a long story.”
“That would be an understatement,” I murmured.
Somewhere upstairs, a voice bellowed.
With a simper, Adwin nodded upward. “That sounds like Gwynne.”
Out of the corner of my mouth, I asked,
“When did Detective Surly arrive?”
Out of the corner of his, he replied, “Maybe an hour and a half ago, fit to be tied, looking like something the cat dragged in.”
Aunt Mat bowed her head at the group and strolled purposefully from the room, a twinkle warming those lovely ginger-brown eyes.
“The long story just got lots longer,” Adwin declared with a droll smile.
“Does someone want to provide a condensed version?” Prunella asked caustically, her furious gaze coming to rest on me.
* * *
Nancy Drew's spirit must have seized my soul, because an overwhelming desire to snoop surged through me like a menopausal hot-flash (such as the ones my mother had complained about the preceding year). I wasn't exactly sure what it was I was searching for, but nosing around became priority number one.
Thomas Saturne's bedroom was first on the agenda. Yes, we'd combed through it as a team and not found much, save for racing forms, a horse mag and Kinky Friedman books, which had provided an interesting skew to the Manhattan lawyer. The room was fairly dim so I turned on one of two antique brass candlestick table lamps.
Our stuffed reptile friend was no longer around; the police had taken possession of him when we'd mentioned our find on Friday. They'd not found the Sidewinder on the initial look-around, but they'd not been investigating a murder at that time. Agreeing it was suspicious, they'd said they'd check Snakey for clues. Clues to what, though? Stuffing and scale remnants?
If memory served correctly, Nancy the amateur detective was a pretty methodical gal, so it seemed best to start in the northwest corner where the armoire stood and work my way around. Thirty minutes later I'd not discovered anything new. I sat on the corner of the bed with Kinky's Frequent Flyer and A Case of Lone Star on my lap, and wondered if Thomas was also a closet cigar smoker. It wasn't hard to envision a Kinkycristo perched on those blubbery lips. Idly, I began flipping pages. A business card for a pizza place in Greenwich Village fell from Flyer. Nothing surprising there. Thomas seemed a pizza sort of man, heavy on the sausage and ground beef. I shook the other novel and a wallet-sized photo dropped to a floral wool rug.
