The Connecticut Corpse Caper

by Tyler Colins

  “Ditto,” Prunella said.

  Both strolled from the room. May-Lee shrugged and followed.

  “That leaves the three of us,” my aunt announced. “I'm tired, but far from sleepy.”

  “Ditto,” Rey laughed, motioning Beatrice for more coffee and grabbing a pecan cookie. “I could do with more caffeine and sugar.”

  “Ditto.” With a weary smile, I stepped closer for a refill.

  Aunt Mat instructed Hubert to see if Lewis required anything and requested Beatrice brew another pot of coffee. Then she turned to us. “Ladies, let's recap.”

  * * *

  “We agree Prunella's involved?” Posed on the sofa like Theda Bara in Cleopatra, Rey sounded as histrionic as she looked.

  Aunt Mat sat in the armchair that Thomas had expired on. I was seated by a fire I'd enlarged by three thick logs a few minutes ago, enjoying the warmth that veiled like a soft, flannel sheet. The two of us turned to each other and nodded.

  “And we're not sure how Linda plays a part,” she continued, “if any.”

  I said, “We need to confirm that the 'dang gal' with Thomas in that Fens bar is our 'dang gal'. Do you have a photo of Linda that we can forward to Aunt Mat's private detective? Let's see if Johnny can tie the two together.”

  Rey's eyes darted like whizzing pinballs. Finally she smiled. “There aren't many, but there is a pretty good one from early last year. She was sitting on a gaffer's lap at an industry function. It was out of character, but then so were the five bourbon shooters she and Roadhouse – he's the gaffer guy – threw back.” She motioned the laptop I'd grabbed from the bedroom.

  Two minutes later we were looking at a very happy Linda Royale perched on a hulking bulk of a male. The name Roadhouse suited him to a T. Her highlighted hair was longer and had seen a straight iron. Dressed in a tight-fitting lilac sweater and long flowing black skirt with gold filigree, gold hoops, chain and bracelet, she looked very different. And pretty drunk.

  “What's Johnny's email address?”

  Aunt Mat gave it and off it went.

  “While we're at it, let me see about sending one.” I got a phone number from my contacts, made a call, and promised Wayne a “reward” (courtesy of my aunt) to make up for disturbing him. He'd eaten a bad batch of clams late last night and was lying in bed, and through the moans and groans, promised to check out the photo. Off it went.

  Rey looked contemplative, then enthusiastically announced, “I've got an idea.” After locating two email addresses for television companies, she keyed in two short paragraphs.

  I read the request regarding vacation timeframes and slapped her back. “Smart thinking.”

  She pitched forward, looked like she might curse, then shrugged and grinned. “I'm not all beauty, you know.”

  Who wanted to go there at this time of the morning? Feeling optimistic, I leaned into the sideboard. “Now we wait for replies to arrive.”

  Aunt Mat paced before the fire. “What if Johnny confirms he's seen Linda? Or this former bookie does? Does that then confirm that she and Prunella are in cahoots?”

  Rey nodded. “In terms of Percival's murder, Prunella had to have been there – she and Linda left together. If Linda was the one with the knife, Prunella certainly didn't stop it and if Prunella was the one with the knife, Linda did nothing to stop it, either. The question, though, is why was Percival murdered?”

  “For that matter, why any of them?” our aunt asked quietly.

  “Unfortunately, we still have a lot of suppositions and gut instincts, but no bona fide answers or proof,” I sighed.

  We eyed one another, glumness shrouding our faces like Niagara Falls mist.

  * * *

  “Sure is quiet,” Rey whispered as we headed down a second-floor corridor later that afternoon.

  “Everyone's resting or napping. Lewis is on the other side of the house, conducting 'official' police matters, which translates into stay-out-of-my-hair-ladies business,” I pointed out, “and you haven't uttered a word in the last few minutes, which is very unlike you.”

  “Ha, ha.” Rey offered one of her raspberries.

  “Ha, ha, ha, you and me, Little brown jug, don't I love thee!”

  Grinning, Fred the Ghost moseyed past.

  Rey's eyes were as wide and round as ping-pong balls and she made some sort of sibilant sound, as if she wanted to say something or shriek, but her tongue was pasted in place.

  “Fred, you devil, you're frightening my niece,” Aunt Matt scolded softly, wagging a playful finger.

  “Ha, ha, ha, you and me, Little brown jug, don't I love thee!” Into the wall he disappeared.

  “You have to believe me now,” I told my cousin.

  Rey merely glanced from one face to the next, took a faltering breath, and careened into Aunt Mat's bedroom.

  “She's in denial,” I said.

  “I'd rather keep Fred our secret, anyway. Who needs paranormal types hanging around the gate?” My aunt slipped her arm into mine. “I'm sure Fred would prefer it that way, too.”

  We stepped before the door.

  “Does he ever talk to you?”

  She gazed back at the wall he'd entered. “Not usually.”

  “Do you have any idea how he ended up here in this house?”

  “Yes.” She smiled mysteriously and tugged me into the bedroom.

  Rey was on the far side of the queen-size bed, under a satin quilt, a down feather pillow pulled over her head. There was no way she'd speak of Fred again in this lifetime.

  * * *

  An early, casual dinner was served in the small dining room around 5:45 p.m.

  My cousin and I had taken showers and slipped into clean jeans and sweaters, while our aunt opted for designer slacks and turtleneck. Adwin was wearing his favorite sweatshirt and jeans, while May-Lee's attire, a gray pinstriped pants suit, was classy and costly. Linda and Prunella, seated at opposite ends of the table, were both sporting long wool skirts with heavy sweaters. I'd always thought people, when caught in dire situations, didn't much care for how they looked or smelled. Obviously I'd been wrong.

  Lewis, Jeana and a young ruddy-faced officer named Budd were also having dinner, but had opted to eat in the kitchen. Budd, whose full name was Buddy Barnabus Budd (and here I'd been thinking the Fonnes held the record for kooky names), had hitched a ride on a plow the M.E. had been following in a Jeep. Meanwhile, Gnarly had snagged a ride back to the station.

  Lewis stuck his head in. “The autopsy's going to get underway later this evening,” he said, eyeing each one of us warily. “Fenton's pretty certain Percival Sayahs died from the knife in the hawht … after a hit on the back of the head with what was likely a hammah or similah implement. Just thought I'd let you know, seeing as you all but made me promise to keep you up-to-date.” He retreated.

  “Ouch, that's gotta hurt,” Linda murmured, chomping into a piece of steamed parsnip.

  Adwin drew a deep breath. “Someone smashed in the back of his head, then fatally stabbed him – without a thought or a blink. How cold-blooded is that?”

  Aunt Mat sighed softly. “Evidently there was no remorse.”

  “Killing comes easily for this person,” Rey murmured, taking a sip of cranberry juice.

  “Or persons,” I threw in.

  “So who at this table did it?” Linda regarded faces like a drill sergeant attempting to detect insubordination.

  “Cuckoo.”

  Everyone's gazes swept across the room to the Swiss-made clock and watched a cheery little bird announce the time. Funny, it had never cuckoo'd before.

  “You did, Linda my dear,” Aunt Mat announced.

  “Mathilda Moone, that's absolutely absurd.” Prunella waved a hand in dismissal.

  “And so did you.”

  Prunella's mouth dropped to the table.

  24

  That's the Way the Cookie Crumbles

  Linda stared at my aunt for several seconds, looked at Rey and then Prunella, and then bah-hah-hahed. �
�Dang. That's hysterical.”

  Prunella's expression was a cross between surprise and disbelief. “Surely you jest? My dear, this isn't at all amusing.”

  “We know it has to be someone in this group,” Aunt Mat responded tartly. “You've said so yourself, and even pointed a finger at different individuals – away from yourself.”

  “We were all thinking aloud.” She took a sip of hibiscus tea and leaned back, looking very calm, even amused. “We also thought it could be an uninvited person, or persons.” She held out her cup as Beatrice stepped alongside with a fine white porcelain Noritake teapot. “Why pick on the two of us?”

  Aunt Mat was sitting at the head of the table, looking like a CEO conducting an annual shareholder meeting. She leaned forward and grasped the edge of the table, her expression stern. “Johnny Gorcey has a witness or two who will swear Linda was at Thomas' office on at least two occasions.”

  Rey started to speak, then appeared befuddled. “What's that bookie-runner guy's name again?”

  “Wayne Antonici,” I replied. “He knew Thomas very well in his bookie days. He confirmed he saw Linda with Thomas at a Boston bar.”

  Linda's gaze turned ten degrees cooler, but she remained mute.

  “And thanks to helpful people in the personnel departments at two companies you worked for in the last ten years, we have vacation dates.” I pulled a folded list from my jeans pocket and held it up, “as well as dates you called in sick.”

  “It appears privacy clauses have been broken. I'll have to check with legal sources.” Leaning back, Linda smiled coldly and arched an eyebrow. “So?”

  “So they coincide with the times six Moones died.”

  “What about it Ms. Royale? Were you present when those Moones died?” Lewis stood in the doorway, his air and tone neutral.

  Budd, standing behind him, picked up his eyeballs from the floor.

  “Go ahead. Try proving I had anything to do with those deaths,” she sniffed. “How ridiculous.”

  Budd leaned forward, completely absorbed in the moment, while Lewis ambled to the sideboard and poured a glass of warm tomato juice. He turned slowly, tumbler in hand. “What would happen if we ran checks on planes, rental cars, buses and the like? Would we find you'd headed to the same destinations where – and when – the Moones died?”

  “Go for it,” the screenwriting assistant dared.

  This one was as cool as a cucumber. Maybe she thought no one would actually verify. Or maybe she had covered her tracks very well. Two cucumbers could play this game of cool. I sat back and crossed my arms. “We have two sources ready to substantiate that you were with Thomas Saturne.”

  She mirrored my pose. “I'd met Thomas Saturne back when. I used his services twice: after Mother met with an unfortunate accident and a time after that. Yes, we met at a Boston bar one afternoon. We both happened to be shopping in Copley Place, bumped into each other, and thought we'd have a drink to catch up on each other's lives. Thomas mentioned a little bar he liked and off we went. There's nothing illegal or suspicious about that.”

  Rey held up her cup as Beatrice went around pouring more tea. “Then why not tell us you knew him?”

  “No one asked.”

  “But you both pretended like you only met here at the house.”

  Linda offered a salty smile. “This group loves to natter over nothing. We had no desire to give wagging tongues more to wag about. Besides, we weren't friends – just a professional service provider and his client.”

  “I'm no tongue-wagger,” Prunella snapped.

  “I'm no natterer.” Aunt Mat appeared affronted.

  “Don't look at me,” Rey puffed.

  “How did you get involved with a New York lawyer in the first place,” I asked “considering you're California-based?”

  “He came recommended. I happened to be living in New York – Queens to be precise – when we'd first met.”

  “There seem to be a lot of coincidences going on,” Rey declared bluntly. “Too many, if you ask me.”

  “We didn't ask you,” Linda all but snarled.

  “Ladies, please.” Lewis held up a hand and turned to Budd. “It appears we have allegations and facts to check. Maybe you can use the computah in Reginald Moone's office to set wheels in motion.” He glanced at Aunt Mat for affirmation and she nodded. “See what you come up with and do what you have to to get information, if possible without heading out in this God-awful weathah. And look in on Gwynne. Maybe bring him some leftovah soup. Then tell Jeana to give you a hand, if she seems bettah. With four bodies,” his eyes rolled upward, “we have our work cut ount for us.”

  “I don't care how bad it is out there, I'm going home – with Reginald's vintage trapper snowshoes if necessary. I've put up with and been insulted enough,” Prunella huffed. “I've got to see to my brother's services, too.”

  “You won't be burying him tomorrow, Ms. Sayers,” Budd told her quietly.

  Prunella's stare held the heat of a flamethrower; the officer should have resembled a charcoal-broiled burger, heavy on the charcoal.

  “We may be wise to scour every room and hidden hallway again.”

  “Why Sheriff, that would suggest you didn't do a good job the first few times.” Linda's tone was as sweet as chrysanthemum soda.

  His tone was equally honeyed. “Then why not confess, ma'am, and save us time and trouble?”

  “Dream on.”

  A thought flew into my head much like that Harris Sparrow had into Prunella's the other day: fast and furious. I jumped up and motioned Lewis into a corner of the kitchen. Jeana was spooning up a couple of mandarin sections, heavy on the syrup, from a big bowl.

  “Feeling better?”

  A sneeze sounding like a detonated squib answered my question.

  “Budd will be needing help,” Lewis informed her.

  With a quick blow of the nose, she rose and left the room with her half-finished dessert.

  He eyed me curiously and waited.

  “Has anyone checked out these dead people's insurance policies and wills?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Being a mystery buff and aspiring detective, young Budd researched histories and families, wills and insurance. Not that we wouldn't have, but we've been overloaded and short-staffed, and he was just a lot quickah.” He pulled a small thick pad from his back pocket. “This is Jeana's. She got the rundown from him and jotted notes.” Narrowed eyes ran down the first page. “Saturne had no will and no current insurance policy, but he did have one a while back.” His eyes scanned mine. “Your friend Prunella Sayahs was beneficiary.”

  “When did he cancel it?”

  “Nearly two years ago.”

  Before the break-up. Interesting. “No one thought that strange?”

  “When Budd brought this to our attention, we didn't think much of it. There wasn't a valid policy, so she wasn't going to collect.”

  “Maybe she thought she was going to collect.”

  Lewis' jaw shifted and he looked back at the next page. “Jensen's wife had been cut out of the picture some time ago. He had a fellow named Chatahs Roland listed as chief beneficiary. The will leaves money to Roland as well as three educational institutions.”

  “Did anyone check May-Lee Sonit?”

  “Mathilda's long-time friend has a will, leaving all to a daughtah and grandson. She also has coverage for the shop, and a modest policy for herself. I heard something about her having been an old girlfriend of Percival Sayahs.”

  “Wife – of short duration.”

  The man's expression meandered from rapt to perturbed to bemused. “We bettah re-check policies and wills for Percival Sayahs. Maybe Budd missed something.”

  “And check the cook,” I advised. “Porter was a chef at Prunella's San Francisco restaurant several years back. She hasn't, however, ever claimed to know him.”

  He scanned my face for several seconds. “Do you think she'll show up in the cook's will or policy?”

  “That's not likely
, but it would be worthwhile knowing who was important enough in the ex-con's life to warrant beneficiary status … if he even had a will or policy.”

  “Ex … con?” Lewis looked far from amused.

  Quickly, I brought him up to speed about Porter's notorious past. “But getting back to Prunella, I'm not sure she'd have killed Percival for money – if she was the one who performed the deadly deed.”

  “Money's great incentive for murdah,” Lewis declared.

  “If that were the incentive, she'd have done so years sooner.”

  “She may have been waiting for the right time and finally found it when bodies started piling up. This could work in her favah.”

  “Are you suggesting the murders aren't related? That there are different killers?”

  Lewis' smile was apathetic. “Right now, I'm simply tossing around ideas, and not very good ones. Until we have us some real evidence – a confession or two would be welcome – we can only speculate.” He tucked the notepad back into his pocket. “While we're speculating, let's consider Linda Royale. You were talking about her having something to do with six dead Moones. Are you thinking she might also be involved with what's been happening here?”

  I leaned into a wall and gathered the tidbits of facts we'd uncovered so far. There was a link somewhere. What was it? “What if my cousin is right and she and Prunella are both involved? One of them would have to be the instigator – most likely Prunella, because she's a powerhouse in her own right. Let's say Prunella collects the payoff and Linda, in return for assistance, receives a percentage.”

  “Is she the sort who'd take money so easily and become an accessory to murdah?” He frowned. “My gut feeling says she isn't.”

  “She may be harboring a major grudge.” I told him about the relation to the Smiths and estate.

  “Damnation.” He rubbed his temple and suddenly appeared ten years older. “Let's go back to the payoff you were mentioning. Where would the Sayahs woman get the money to 'pay off' your friend?”

  I considered it. “There are two possibilities. One, she thought she would inherit money – lots of it – from Thomas Saturne. Two, she thought she would receive payment from an angry bookie or loan shark – earned for the termination of a debt-heavy gamester whose losing was becoming a horrible habit.”