The Connecticut Corpse Caper

by Tyler Colins

  “Widget.”

  “Widget?” She looked thoughtful.

  “It's a small gadget or doodad. You were a waltzing widget,” I confirmed and laughed. “And you thought those dance classes wouldn't pay off.”

  “Right. I remember I had to wear a fifty-pound padded outfit… . And I met Cecil after the shoot.”

  “The editing guy you left at the altar?”

  “He got over me,” she smiled. “I wasn't getting very challenging roles back then, but the bills got paid. As for California, L.A. smog aside, the beaches are great, the food is wholesome and awesome, and shopping's fab. There's always something to do and someone to see.”

  “Then you're happy?”

  Rey's expression turned unusually serious. “One person's happiness is another's misery. It's all relative, isn't it?”

  I studied her face and she turned away. “What else do you have besides a bunch of dead Moones?”

  “Not much.” She shook her head and spoke to the desk lamp. “But I think dear Pruney killed Thomas.”

  “Where's your evidence?”

  “Here's my three-part evidence: motive, timing, ability.”

  “In your case that equals women's intuition, and that's not enough. What we need is incontrovertible evidence – like a shawl with DNA and/or sewn-on name tag.”

  “Yeah. In our dreams.” Rey's Clara Bow lips pulled into a harsh line as she scanned a couple of pages and pushed one forward. “What about this?”

  I perused it. “So Percival wrote articles on herbs and apothecary treatments, and natural ways to keep a garden prime? He's a history and landscaping-gardening buff. Prunella would have read them, or any of his books and research papers. She'd have learned a few things, like what's written here.” I pointed. “How Poison Hemlock leaves or fruits are inferior to the preserved juice of the herb. How the fruits yield more coniine than the leaves. How Poison Hemlock juice, if overdosed, produces paralysis.” I pointed to another paragraph. “Symptoms of poisoning include nausea, weakness, paralysis, and death.”

  “We've always known Poison Hemlock to be dangerous, courtesy of mystery movies.” Making fists, she placed one on top of the other on the desk, and rested her chin on them. She looked exhausted, maybe a little dejected.

  I moved to the next page. “Curare is the common name for various arrow poisons originating from South America. There are three types: tube, calabash, pot. The main toxin of curare is dubocurarine, Attempts to use curare during anesthesia date back to 1912 –”

  “I read it. I don't need to hear it again.”

  “Fine, but hear this: there's nothing that puts the blowgun or Poison Hemlock in Prunella Sayers' hands … here or anywhere else.” I smacked her head playfully with the papers and placed them on the desk.

  She sat upright. “Speaking of Prunella Sayers' hands, I never told you – that woman has a vise-like grip. She could break bones without trying!” She recounted the moment when she started to open the door to Jensen's room and Prunella clasped her hand.

  “That still doesn't prove anything, other than she lifts weights or uses grasp springs.”

  “Do you always have to play devil's advocate?” She put on a pouty face and slumped back in Reginald's nineteenth-century library chair.

  “I'm playing Sheriff Lewis and demonstrating what he'd say, given there's no proof to back up your allegations.” Bruno Mars announced I had a call. Thankfully no cell phone towers had gone down and there were back-up power systems, so there were no major inconveniences at the Moone manse. Too bad the same didn't hold true for all the homes in nearby counties reported to be draped in frosty darkness and roads shrouded with slick ice. “Yes?”

  “Hey. It's me.”

  “Hi 'me'.” I looked at Rey and shrugged. The voice was familiar, but I couldn't place it.

  “I remembered something about that young wannabe classy gal Saturne was with.”

  It was the former bookie. “How are you? What do you remember?”

  “I'm fine. Thanks. I remember she was drinking lager. Saturne ordered her another round while we was chatting. That seemed an odd mix: lager and class. You know what I mean?” He didn't wait for me to respond. “While I was thinking on it, I do remember her voice. It was kinda sweet-sounding and young – immature young, not physically young. And she used the word 'dang' twice. That's another reason I thought her weird – dressed fancy like that, but using a hick word and drinking beer.”

  “What a great memory. I appreciate you calling to let me know. I owe you.” And I did. “I'll catch up with you next week.” I hung up and told Rey what Wayne Antici had relayed.

  Rey and I eyed each other for several seconds. We opened our mouths simultaneously, but it was gale-force winds hurling ice matter against the mansion that resounded throughout the room. Then the lights went out.

  * * *

  Holding hands, Rey and I fingered walls to find our way to the drawing room. A fire blazed and Prunella was in the midst of lighting six tall candles standing in silver holders in a perfect row on the sideboard. Everyone, save for Percival, was there, including Fred the Cat and an old gnarly police officer Lewis had requested be sent over to take over for ailing Gerald Gwynne. Wet, cold and miserable, he'd arrived two hours late via a Chevy Tahoe currently parked one-hundred yards from the driveway entrance – in an icy snow drift.

  Gnarly hoisted a thick leather belt over a pumpkin-sized paunch. Save for the perfect globular shape of the man's chrome dome, he resembled Jackie Gleason in Smokey and the Bandit. “Lights going out happens a lot in these old big houses.” Tell us something we didn't know or hadn't heard in a dozen films.

  “Where's Perc?” Rey asked casually, glancing around.

  “He's getting flashlights and boxes of candles, hopefully useable, from the rear storage room,” Aunt Mat said, moving before the fireplace. “With this storm, electricity will likely be out until morning. And if it ices up for as long and heavily as they're saying, it may be out for two or three days, or more.”

  Linda stood by a window, peering into a crystal-white night as winds howled like ravenous wolves. Rey and I glanced at each other, shrugged, and moved closer to the fire. What was in a “dang” anyway? A lot of people used the word, right? And if Linda had been Thomas' drinking date, who was to say there had been anything ominous or lewd about it? But why had she never mentioned it, if she was the one Wayne had described?

  “Have you two solved the murders?” Adwin grinned.

  Rey stopped and turned. “We've come up with viable solutions.”

  Prunella smirked. “Dear Rey, 'viable solutions' are far from concrete facts or tangible evidence. They won't put anyone behind bars.”

  “Folks, I'm gonna look around and make sure everything's locked up, then check on the sheriff.” Gnarly hoisted the belt again and sauntered to the door like a sated armadillo.

  “I'm heading up,” Adwin announced. “It's been a long day.”

  “I'd better see what's keeping Perc.” Prunella followed Adwin, who had a candle holder in one hand and a very tranquil-looking cat tucked under the other arm.

  Rey sighed and started toward Linda, and stopped. The screenwriting assistant was no longer in the room. “Where'd Linda go?” Her hands flew to her hips. “Shouldn't we stay in sight of each other?”

  “That would be my advice, but who am I?” Aunt Mat responded with a tart smile.

  “Who are any of us?” May-Lee asked philosophically, her smile melancholy. “I'll see you all in the morning.”

  Rey's arms flew up. “I give up!”

  “Should we bother with Linda?” I asked, not sure I really cared one way or another at that moment. “She's probably gone to bed. She looked beat.”

  “Or guilty maybe?”

  “Wishful thinking?”

  She shrugged. “What if she did it, Jilly? What if she's a secret psychopath? What if she wants to kill some more? I'm sharing a room with her.”

  “Come on. Would she kill her best friend
?”

  Our aunt chuckled. “Methinks that imagination of yours, Reynalda, runneth rampant.”

  I chuckled as well.

  “You can always move into one of the rooms near our friends in blue, if you want.” Aunt Mat grabbed a candleholder as Rey appeared to mull it over. “I'm going to see what's keeping the Sayers.”

  “Hey – what did I say about staying in sight of each other?”

  She regarded her niece patiently.

  Rey's curse, although silent, was audible in the expression. “Fine. We may as well all go.”

  I grabbed two candleholders. “I could do with a tall glass of icy-cold chocolate milk. How about you, Cousin? It seems as if you could use something to mellow those tense nerves.”

  Her gaze narrowed and her lips tightened.

  I elbowed an arm. “Let's keep things in perspective. Crazy conclusions without justification are just that: crazy. Remember what happened in the Catskills during summer vacation in middle school?”

  My cousin's frown changed into a grin. “After that, Dinde the lifeguard, and the local police wouldn't let us within thirty miles of the place. And the deputy's family never did move back. I still get letters.”

  Aunt Mat regarded us as if we'd lost it when we started tittering.

  “How were we to know it was summer stock theater?” I gave her arm a playful slap. “Anyway, we made some crazy conclusions – which resulted in some majorly foolish conduct and serious repercussions – and we couldn't have been more wrong. Let's embrace logic, as well as common sense.”

  The three of us walked down the corridor that, except for the sounds of a seething storm, was strangely quiet. We stepped up to a small storage room door by the laundry room and found everyone there, save for Adwin and the officers. Prunella and Linda stood silent and shocked – over Percival Sayers' inert body.

  * * *

  The cry we all expected to burst from Prunella's lips didn't; she was too busy gaping. She stood near his head, her face drawn, while Linda was situated by his feet, her expression grim. Amber candlelight lent an eerie feel to the surreal scene.

  “He's dead?” Rey.

  “As the proverbial doornail,” Linda replied.

  “How can you tell?”

  “He has a Furi Rachel Ray seven-inch offset bread knife in his heart.”

  “Uh. Right.”

  “One of us better get Gnarly,” I suggested softly.

  “Who?” Aunt Mat appeared bemused.

  “That old geezer Lewis had sent over.”

  “That would be Ulysses Abbott,” she said, her gaze remaining on Percival, as if anticipating that any second he might yank the blade from his chest and shout, “Ha ha, gotcha!”

  “Maybe we all better go,” Linda advised. “This is way too Ten Little Indians.”

  “Little Brown Jug” resounded down the hallway.

  “Fred's here,” I announced.

  Rey shot an elbow into my ribs. “Will you stop with Fred the Ghost? He's a figment of your imagination.”

  “In a pig's eye!”

  “No one else has seen him –”

  “He's real Reynalda! Can't you hear him?” I motioned the hallway.

  “Ladies!” our aunt called, playing referee. “That's Ulysses. He loves nineteenth-century folk songs. Ulysses? We're in the back, by the laundry room.”

  Heavy footfalls came our way. A flashlight beam preceded his entry.

  “Yes Mrs. Moone? I just – oh.” He looked at Percival and frowned. “Is he … ?”

  “As the proverbial doornail.”

  He exhaled loudly and pulled a cell phone from the breast pocket of his wrinkled shirt. “Sheriff Lewis is not going to like this one iota. I'm up shit's creek – in a cracked canoe.”

  23

  Ring around the Rosie

  During the night, sleet had morphed into snow grains and then transformed into heavy, wet snow. Winds continued to wail, but now they sounded more like tormented banshees. The group, what was left of it, was seated in various corners of the drawing room. It was just after eight o'clock in the morning.

  Adwin was absently patting Fred, who was curled on his lap and snoring up a storm comparable to the one outside. Aunt Mat was idly leafing through a decorating magazine, looking weary. Linda was staring at Prunella, who was regarding the portrait of my aunt and uncle over the fireplace, yet both women appeared to be on other realms. My cousin was re-reading notes and entering citations here and there. Our spindly stern-faced maid was refilling coffee cups as Hubert stood by the door like a listing ship, waiting to see if anyone required his services. It was like being caught in a bad reality show rerun or playing Bill Murray's Phil Connors in Groundhog Day and living the same events over and over again.

  Sometime after midnight, Gnarly – better known as Ulysses Abbott – had collected statements and was waiting for an M.E. and back-up to arrive. Lewis' cell phone had died last night thanks to a tumble over the second floor balcony when he'd slipped on the waxy wood floor. A first-floor ceramic urn in the direct path of the tumbling cell incurred a long jagged crack. With LAN service currently down, the sheriff was running around, communicating with law enforcement personnel via alternate means: tablet, mouth to mouth, and smoke signals. Okay, it was too wet for the last method, but if he could have started an exterior bonfire to get his orders out and obeyed, he'd have done so.

  Gwynne was sicker than he'd been the night before. Fortunately, Aunt Mat had found Bonine to help with nausea and had brought it to the deputy with a pot of chamomile tea. She'd suggested he take one of the raspberry-flavored chewable tablets, but when her back was turned to pour, he'd sucked back five. The man would be out for a while.

  Jeana was resting upstairs with a pot of peppermint tea, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a large box of tissues. She'd told Aunt Mat, who seemed to be enjoying playing nurse, that she'd come downstairs later, when the throbbing in her head subsided. The rest of us were fine with her staying upstairs; no one wanted Jeana's germs dancing around with joyous zeal. Apparently Lewis was of the same mind: he'd told the officer not to show her face until she was feeling at least ninety per cent better.

  Gnarly had patrolled the household perimeter twice after Percival's body had been discovered. No doubt he'd done an A-1 job of it after Lewis' lambasting. You had to feel for the heavy-set man who looked like he'd had a knife thrust in his chest. There was no way he could have prevented what had happened. If Percival had not received the knife at the moment he had, he'd have received it at a later time. Why Percival Sayers though? Or had he been mistaken for someone else in the dark?

  I felt eyes on me. Linda smiled thinly, turned, and re-focused her gaze on Prunella, who shifted and studied a brass vase that boasted a uniquely etched geometric design.

  “How are you holding up?” Aunt Mat asked Prunella quietly.

  She shrugged. “It will take a while before it a sinks in. It seems … kind of … dreamlike.”

  “Why your brother?” Rey asked, standing.

  “How would I know?” Prunella replied coolly.

  “He must have ticked someone off.”

  “He was a nice man: he didn't tick people off.”

  Rey crossed her arms and studied the birder's pinched face. “Did it seem as if he was worried, or scared maybe?”

  Her gaze narrowed and her tone grew frostier by the syllable. “Perc had no reasons to be worried or scared … no more than any of us, given what's been happening. He has always … he had always been a conscientious, kind-hearted person who'd accepted most people at face value.”

  Rey didn't seem fazed. “Did he mention anything earlier in the day?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like having seen something or heard something. Maybe learned something … or knew something.”

  Prunella frowned, rose stiffly, and began pacing. Tension was thickening like quickly-whisked roux.

  It was time to return to my laptop upstairs. “Is there any reason we need to stay here?”


  “Yeah.” Linda's smile and tone were parch-dry. “So we don't get offed.”

  “The way things are going, any one of us could be 'offed' next,” Adwin murmured, scratching his fuzzy friend's head. “Apparently the scarf in the compost area was merely a ruse.”

  “Apparently?” Prunella's smile was sour. “If you're next on the killer's list, you're next. That's it. There's no escape.”

  “We're like those duck targets at the carny,” my beau declared. “I'm all for leaving.”

  Linda looked from one face to the next. “I know the sheriff said we could head to the station if we don't feel like staying here, but I'm not about to risk navigating through cement-like snow and treacherous road conditions. Even the medical examiner has to take extreme measures to get here I heard – by coming in on the tail of a plow in a sturdy Jeep Rubicon.”

  “It could take hours to get there, if we get there. We could spin into a ditch or wrap ourselves around a tree. And who wants to be stuck in a small police station? At least here, we can keep an eye on one another, or run and hide, if we're so inclined,” May Lee stated with a frown. “I'm with Linda. I'd prefer to stay put.”

  Rey turned to Aunt Mat. “You keep any guns?”

  “There are half-a-dozen hunting rifles. Why?”

  “We should arm ourselves.”

  “I'm sure Lewis and company would love having us meander around, ready to shoot at any movement or sound that startles us.” Adwin placed Fred on the rug and hopped to his sneakered feet. “Since we're all staying, I'm going upstairs to get some sleep seeing as I only got about two hours of it last night. Then, I'm packing so I can leave as soon as this brutal weather lets up.” He grabbed two ham-and-brie sandwiches, wrapped them in a napkin, and turned. “So are you.”

  I looked at Rey and smiled. “Don't you love a man who exudes authority?”

  She smiled impishly in return and together we responded, “No-ot.”

  Adwin glanced from her to me and left, Fred padding immediately behind.

  “I think I'll do the same,” Linda said. “I like you guys, but I'm getting kind of sick of looking at you. Nothing personal.”