by Tyler Colins
I sank into a chair, feeling refreshed from a fragrant shower and change of clothes, but not overly anxious to be in the company of any one person at this particular moment. Folding hands across my fleecy jacket, I looked from one face to the next. “Emotions appear to be running ragged around here.”
Rey, who'd remained in a long wool turtleneck but swapped jeans for thick wool leggings, continued gnawing on a midnight-black Twizzler. One arched, heavily penciled eyebrow seemed to say, “Can't imagine why.”
“Do you think anyone else is in line to die or be walloped?” Prunella asked, topping off her tea. “Or have we truly seen the last of the killer?”
I took a sip of mine. Ugh. It was cold and way too green on the green tea side. “Is there any reason someone else should die or be walloped?”
“That's hard to say. It depends on what dark secrets we hold and what nefarious schemes we have planned.”
I pictured her as a bad-ass businesswoman, saw her sharing an intimate dinner with Thomas, and then envisioned her going after someone with a potentially lethal fish. “What secrets or schemes might we hold?”
“They would hardly be secret then, would they?” Her smirk bordered on haughty. “Let's get back to the dead gentlemen. Thomas may well have been murdered because of his gambling problems. It wasn't mere pennies he owed. Another possibility is he planned to kill us all and collect the grand booby prize to pay off his anxious collectors and/or play the ponies in hopes of winning big-time … but someone caught wind of his intention and bye-bye Tommy Boy.”
Rey and I glanced at each other. Considering Prunella's break up with “Tommy Boy” and her penchant for unusual weapons, she'd be our first choice for lawyer whacker. I smiled benignly and looked as innocent as Dora the Explorer. “So you know about the gambling?”
“Rumors and gossip have been flowing around here like lava from Hawaii's Kilauea volcano.”
I looked at Rey. The eyebrow arched again. And the Twizzler got smaller.
Prunella continued. “Jensen was about to divorce his less than lovely wife. He'd screwed up a couple of business deals, perhaps because he was thinking too much of his lover of the past five years – who, I understand, was going to make their relationship public if Jensen didn't admit to it.”
Rey and I tensed. How could we have missed that?
“He had a mistress, did he?”
Prunella nodded as she nibbled what had to be a watercress sandwich, gauging from the little green leaves fluttering to her lap. “In this case it's a mister.”
It was my turn to arch an eyebrow. “He's … ?”
“Very,” Prunella grinned. “At least for the time being. He's been said to step from one side to the other, depending on who has captured his fancy.”
“That hardly seems like a motive for murder,” I said.
“It would be if the wife was royally annoyed. Winda Moone always had it good. She never had to work. She shopped, enjoyed cocktail parties, and fine-dined regularly. If he had planned on coming out, that would have been the official demise of a sham marriage. She'd have been p.o.'d with the major, unplanned lifestyle change. On the flipside, it would also be a motive if Chaters Roland the Fourth – lover and fellow barrister – had determined that everything should be, and would be, in the open.”
I gazed at her blankly, then shook my head. “It doesn't fit. Jensen's death was somehow connected to Thomas'. I can't see pissed off wifey or mister-mistress traveling all the way from England to off a spouse or partner.”
“It's perfect, though, in both cases,” Prunella said gleefully. “Who would ever guess that Winda or Chaters had traveled all those miles to 'off' a partner?”
“You're right that no one would think of either one as the murderer, but no matter how furtive she or he was, there would be a trail. If someone investigated diligently enough, they'd find it. But I'm not even remotely inclined to believe it's either one of them.” I drew a long, slow breath. “Thomas' overdosing on quinapril could have been an accident, or been accepted as one, but the use of Poison Hemlock and a blowgun were deliberate.” I leaned forward, my expression somber. “Jensen must have discovered something and, as a result, was silenced. The same with Porter. One schemed killing was followed by two cover-ups. It's a crazy chain of events.”
“With one crazy killer now potentially off the premises.” Prunella eyed me closely. “Why do you think your aunt was hit?”
I scanned her strained expression for several seconds. “As your brother Percival suggested earlier, someone may have been making a statement about her joke not being appreciated. Or they desperately wanted that book… . But why would they want it that badly? It's all way too vague.” I accepted a cucumber sandwich from the plate she held out. “Which one in the group do you think did it?”
Her dimpled chin rose. “It certainly wasn't me. Nor was it Perc. I know my brother very well.”
“Isn't he your half-brother? Or is it step-brother?” I asked with Dora's innocence.
She smiled frostily. “My my. The gossip doesn't just flow like a tranquil lava flow from Kilauea, it spews like clouds of stones and ashes from Mount Vesuvius.” Her cool gaze moved from me to Rey and back again. “How about one or both of you?”
I laughed and looked at Rey. “What do you think, cousin? Should we confess?”
Rey smiled. How uncharacteristically quiet she'd been. I liked it.
I hopped to my feet. “I'm going upstairs to keep my laptop company.”
Rey sipped tea, popped the last of the licorice in her mouth, and rose. “Let's pool our thoughts and observations after dinner. I could use a bit of a lie-down.”
“That's not a bad idea,” Prunella said. She called for Beatrice, who was in the kitchen in less than five seconds. Did the maid lurk in the shadows, waiting to be summoned? After instructing her we were finished, Prunella led the three of us up the stairs.
“Dang!”
“Keeee-rist!”
“Hey guys! We found something!”
Linda and Percival's excited voices prompted us to hasten to Jensen's room. What now? Another body?
* * *
I lurched into Rey, who stumbled into Prunella as the three of us attempted to enter Jensen's room at once. A honey-combed crystal vase toppled and its “combs” textured the floor.
“We're here, not there,” Percival yelled from the next room.
Off we lurched and lumbered to the hobby-art room. Linda was by the brass-bound trunk, holding a decorative shoe box and looking smug.
Adwin shambled into the room, nearly bumping into Percival. His hair was messy and his face had bed-sheet lines. He also looked peevish, like a tot who'd been awakened from an afternoon snooze much too soon. “You're as graceful as a herd of caribou – no, make that a convoy of cement trucks rolling over a boardwalk. What's going on?”
“Murder most foul,” Percival announced dramatically, pointing at the box as if it were something distasteful, like fresh roadkill or regurgitated lunch.
Rey and I peered inside. A .40-caliber blowgun and a small amber bottle with a stopper, half-filled with liquid, lay on a folded satin scarf. The bottle looked old, like a museum piece.
“Where'd you find this?” I asked.
Linda nodded to a partially draped Victorian mahogany library bookcase. “We were passing by Jensen's room and thought we'd give it a quick once-over. We found nothing so we thought it might be worth investigating some adjoining rooms. If someone's going to hide something, they may not want it in immediate grasp or sight, just in case, but maybe they'd place it within arm's reach, so to speak. We were right.”
Rey frowned and stepped around the wooden divider, surveying the area. “How come the cops never found it?” What she really meant: how come I wasn't the one to discover it?
“They may not have known what they were looking for. It's nothing but a shoe box in a cabinet.” Prunella patted Percival's back. “If they'd looked inside, they may have thought it was medicine – something a
diabetic would need.”
“In a shoe box?” I asked flatly. “In a room that hasn't been used in a dog's age?”
“It's a freaking blowgun,” Adwin all but hissed. “People don't blow insulin into their necks.”
We turned to Adwin and he gazed balefully back. Someone was in need of additional nappy time.
“They overlooked it,” Linda said simply. “Which is easy enough to do.”
Prunella murmured in agreement. “We'd better show Sheriff Lewis. He's around here somewhere.”
“He's in that guestroom Matty assigned him,” Percival said with a sour smile. “He should have the entire force here, not that it would do much good.”
“One second.” I held up a hand. “If this belonged to Jensen – and we're assuming it did simply because of its location – we have to surmise he killed Thomas.”
“Makes sense.”
“Sounds logical.”
“Yup.”
“And then someone killed him,” I pointed out.
“His partner,” May-Lee declared. “There has to be a partner – possibly the person who lost the shawl.”
“Or purposely placed it there and who also killed Porter, for potentially seeing him – or her – with the body and/or evidence,” I continued.
“Makes sense.”
“Sounds logical.”
Something wasn't logical though, and I couldn't put my finger on it.
“There's no need for one or both to kill anyone else, because none of us have seen anything,” Adwin grumbled, leaning into a wall. “More importantly: one or both appear to have departed the premises.”
Percival exhaled loudly. “Personally, I'm past caring. Let's get this box to the sheriff and let him and his colleagues figure it out. Hopefully they'll find fingerprints on the bottle and blowgun, and all will become readily apparent. Tomorrow, if not sooner, I want to be back home, reading Hemingway or Chaucer by the fireplace, and forgetting the last few days happened.”
“I'm with you about being home.” Linda walked to the door. “I'm going to see Lewis.” She left, box in hand, Percival hot on her heels.
The four of us eyed one another.
I had to say it. “It's too pat –”
“Too perfect,” Rey agreed.
“Because you want it to be, “Adwin suggested with a sneer. “Leave it to those who do it best and know how to deal with danger.”
Prunella nodded. “Rey, dear, you'll have many chances to play a detective in your movie career, I'm sure. And you, Jill, you'll make a fine reporter or journalist one day, of that I'm also sure. As Adwin said, leave it – leave it to the people who are trained to find answers.”
“You tell 'em Pruney,” Adwin said and the two high-fived each other.
Rey and I exchanged glances and followed the two. As my beau and his comrade strolled down the hallway, chatting about dinner, my cousin and I turned to each other.
“Leave it?” she hissed under her breath.
“In a pig's eye,” we avowed quietly in unison.
22
Little Brown Jugs
Figuring the library-study wasn't likely to be occupied at 9:30 at night, Rey and I agreed to meet there. My cousin sat where Lewis had been hours before, her torso pressed into a handsome antique desk as she leaned over and scanned papers. The lawman was upstairs with Jeana, who, between coughing and sneezing fits, looked as stressed and tense as an inexperienced cross-country skier about to be thrust down a flying hill. The promise of a full-scale cold was etched on her ruby-red nose and in her glassy eyes. Gwynne was out for the count; the victim of a wicked bug, his pale face had become more ashen as he grew increasingly sweaty and sick.
I sat opposite my cousin, legs crossed, a tall glass of cranberry juice and soda in hand. We were wearing similar two-piece fleece outfits; hers was poppy red, mine mustard yellow (we'd have been seen coming from two hundred yards).
Except for sleet persistently thumping the roof and windows, the early dinner had been a fairly silent affair. Every few minutes, gales at an aggressive seventy MPH would accelerate past like an Olympic luge team, making for deadly forces that could topple trees as if they were matchsticks and thrust aside power lines like bits of string. Crossing several states, the storm was quickly evolving from nuisance status to disruptive. It would be full-scale within a matter of hours somber-faced announcers stated before reminding viewers about the dangers of being on the roads and shoveling heavy wet snow.
Adwin's early-day baked goods had complemented a simple dinner. Herb-infused bread accompanied beef-barley soup that had been frozen for emergencies while challah buns accompanied two types of quiches: a pleasantly spiced spinach-salmon fusion and a chunky bacon-ham blend. Hubert had put together an antipasto platter and Beatrice had made up two huge jugs of iced mint tea, an odd beverage for a cold night and late fall dinner. In the drawing room afterwards Adwin, Prunella and Percival, and Linda had hunkered down over Monopoly while Aunt Mat sat in a corner with an old Jude Devereaux novel and a glass of dry sherry. May-Lee had claimed the opposite corner and opted for a mug of Earl Gray and needlepoint, with the Stars and Stripes gracing one-third of her canvas.
“You think Lewis'll let us go home tomorrow?” Rey asked.
“You mean: will Mother Nature let us?” My smile was as flat as my tone. “In terms of Lewis, I don't believe he can technically detain us, but law isn't my forte.”
“Except for what you catch on NCIS and Bones reruns, right?” Rey grinned.
“That's forensics: a different kettle of fish.”
She made a “whatever” gesture and held up pages of handwritten notes in fuchsia ink.
“Has Linda been researching again?” I asked.
“I have. She wanted down time and I wanted to learn the truth, so I decided to go it alone.”
“I'm impressed.”
She leaned across the desk, a patient confiding in a doctor. “The history of this place had me curious, what with all these weird cubbyholes. I tried to find out more about its history.”
“It's quite a tragedy about the Smiths.”
“Yeah. Sad.” She feigned a shiver. “And scary.”
“Some people seem to absorb bad luck. Continually.”
“Like a sponge.” She pushed forth a page. “I followed the family up to present day and then switched gears. Fascinating stuff.” She motioned a page. “See this woman, Theresa Smith? That's Linda's mother.”
I glanced down the long list of Smiths and noted the various modes of death and mischance Rey had jotted alongside each name. The stuff sagas were made of. I noted Theresa had three children and that she died fairly young, after having been mowed down by a squash truck during squally weather. “So you know about her relation to the Smiths?”
She scanned my face. “Apparently so do you.”
“I only found out earlier today.”
“Thanks for sharing,” she sniffed.
I shrugged. “The opportunity didn't present itself.”
She sniffed again. “Anyway, she was married for a short spell in her late teens to an aspiring blues musician. Chiffre Royale. Great name, doncha think? He was attractive and talented, and heavy into heroine.” Her expression grew somber. “They found him in a Chicago motel with a needle in his arm.” She sighed softly and shuffled papers. “Moving on. Besides our Uncle Reginald, six Moones have died in the last five years: two in fires, two in one car accident, one in a spelunking adventure, and one swimming off Myrtle Beach.”
“Maybe the Smiths' bad luck rubbed off on the Moones when they bought the house.”
“Maybe the bad luck was arranged?”
I scrutinized her grim expression. “Are you suggesting the deaths weren't accidents?”
“What if they weren't?” she asked with a cynical smile.
I ran down the list of names: Jackson Moone, David Leigh Moone, Harrison Moone, Franklin Moone, Helena Moone and Florence Moone-Bertolli. “The only Moone I'm familiar with on this list is Helena. I
recall meeting her at a family gathering at Cousin Fitz's Mashpee home ten summers ago. She was a tall, reedy thing, very somber, and extremely snobby. She didn't mix with us much. Remember?”
“Yeah. She hovered around Cousin Petey, Uncle Carlton's youngest son. She really had a thing for him.”
I chuckled. “Tall and reedy, somber and snobby meets short and flabby, silly and frisky.”
“He was funny.”
“Wasn't Carlton expected not to show? I mean, he and Reginald never spoke after Carlton ran off to join the army, so it was a huge surprise for most to see him and the kids attend. I remember Mom's face paling three shades when they strolled across the patio with wine and beer in tow in that little chuckwagon.”
“Uncle Reginald wasn't fifty miles within range and Uncle Carlton knew that, courtesy of Aunt Mat. That's why he came.”
“Reginald was never much in range: the man was fairly anti-social when it came to us.”
“Betcha didn't know that Petey became a sought-after stand-up comedian?”
I shook my head. “There are a lot of family members I haven't kept in touch with.”
“He's got a big movie deal in the works.” She smiled drolly. “Now he's short and flabby, silly and frisky, and rich.”
“And a gold-digger's dream.”
We laughed and I strolled to a Palladian-style window and peered past heavy beaded curtains. Bone-numbing cold permeated thick glass and I instinctively zipped up the jacket to my chin. “It's nasty out. And it's promising to get even nastier, which is hard to imagine.”
“At least we're as snug as two jailed bugs.”
I perched myself on the windowsill. “Do you like living in California, hobnobbing with celebrities and doing the party circuit?”
She gazed past my shoulder. “I love being an actress.”
“You always were a ham.”
She grinned. “That was my first memorable commercial: Reynalda the hula-ing ham. I went from fruit to meat, to vegetables, and back again. My first few acting jobs included the tap-shoe-dancing turnip, tangoing tangerine, and then waltzing watermelon.”
