by Tyler Colins
Lewis' office was a 10' X 14' room painted edamame green and parsnip white, and was filled with furniture that could have come from the Sally Ann. Crammed inside, it felt as if we were in a Murder She Wrote episode, waiting for the murderer to be unveiled – after we went around the group a few times, of course, and challenged each other with pointed, accusing fingers.
It was 4:00 a.m. Tuesday, and hours since Jeana and Prunella had been transported from the passageway to the morgue and hospital respectively. Gwynne had been taken to the same hospital. The flu he'd been experiencing could actually have been food poisoning – emphasis on “poison”. It was a good thing Lewis hadn't met the same fate; obviously he'd avoided ingesting what the deputy had. Had Bird Lady engineered the entire Connecticut caper? Or had she had a partner, sharing equal – and evil – responsibility? Had that been Porter perhaps? Or had he merely been an errand boy?
It was an investigation Augustus Jacob Lewis was not looking forward to conducting. Jeana had been family and Cousin Hermeena, Jeana's mother, was not going to let anything or anyone slip through any legal cracks. She was prepared to take on the town, county, and state if necessary. In terms of Prunella, however, he was ready to write her off as mastermind and executioner, and no one felt much like presenting an argument.
A young pug-faced man carried in a long cardboard box filled with large cups marked coffee and hot cocoa, small cartons of milk, thick egg-salad sandwiches, containers of maple oatmeal, pastries and cookies. Everyone, including a dispatcher and mechanic, dove in. The remaining Moone mansion guests and their hostess buried tired faces into the tasks at hand: appeasing grumbling tummies and avoiding one another.
“I hear main roads in the area have been plowed and salted, and are travelable, if ya'll drive with care. Some trains and buses outta be moving by early-morning rush hour,” he announced with a pronounced Waco accent. Tiny lips sporting remnants of an ugly cold sore smiled wearily and with a nod, the sapling-thin rookie left.
Lewis sauntered in, grabbed a hot cocoa, flipped the lid and took a noisy gulp. “We must have set a record for the numbah of killings in one location in five days.”
Aunt Mat put down her oatmeal, got up, squeezed his shoulder, and ambled to a small narrow window. “What? Only one media van?” she asked flatly, peering through faux wood blinds.
“It's still early. A couple of TV crews are ten blocks ovah at a bakery fire. The place has been known to bake the best breads and buns for miles, and has been in Beth Seth's family for three generations. It's big news. So's the roof cave-in at Mort's Mad Mattress Mezzanine. It crumpled under a mass of ice like it were a house of cards. There's nawt one bed left. Othah media folks are likely stuck behind plows or storm chasing.”
Lewis started to sit when Budd, carrying an industrial-size coffee and sporting a colorful scabbed chin, peered in and gestured. All eyes followed the sheriff as he closed the door behind him and joined the broad-shouldered man in the hallway. They chatted in low tones and ignored us as we, brimming with curiosity, ambled up to a tiny interior window with partially drawn plastic blinds and watched.
Rey, the only one standing smack-dab in the middle of the window, sucked on an almond croissant, her gaze affixed on the two gents like a cheating student keeping a leery eye on the presiding professor. “What do you suppose they're discussing?”
“Maybe they've discovered something,” Aunt Mat replied astringently, retrieving the unfinished oatmeal and dropping into Lewis' mesh-back chair. “Like solid evidence for a welcome change.”
Rey continued to watch. “I'd like to know how Pruney Sayers found out about the passageways.”
“We had rather 'liquid' affairs over the years, which sometimes resulted in overnight stays. There were numerous opportunities for her to snoop around and get into old blueprints and plans. Or she may have learned of them through Porter, who may have discovered them while in my employ. Or maybe Reggie mentioned them at one time or another,” our aunt offered casually, adding sugar to a cold cup of coffee. “As I told Jill initially, I'd suspected her – along with Percival and/or Thomas – of replacing authentic pieces from my husband's collections with fakes. The passageways were ideal for transferring items secretly from one place or home to another.”
“That seems like an awful lot of work and risk, never mind the laborious task of actually transferring the items,” I announced. “I'd be more inclined to believe the fakes were shipped after Percival made the purchases.”
“Whenever the trades were made is irrelevant.” Aunt Mat's expression grew solemn. “I wished I'd been wrong about all this, because I'd considered her such a … a precious friend.”
“I'm sorry,” Adwin said with a placating smile.
“As the saying goes, shit happens.” Her expression bordered on dejected.
“When they investigate Prunella further,” I mused aloud, “they'll probably find funds in various accounts and/or business ventures. She had to have stashed that ill-gotten money somewhere and I'm wagering it wasn't in a mattress.”
“Percival must have discovered something while we were at Aunt Mat's house, but what?” Rey looked thoughtful. “Had he seen his sister move through a wall? Had he found bank statements or receipts in a purse or drawer? Had he overheard her talking to a crony?”
“Whatever it was, he lost his life for it,” I responded.
“Which goes to prove that love or family isn't thicker than blood,” Rey said wryly. “She killed her half-brother, and long-time lover.”
“She killed two long-time lovers,” I clarified. “Thomas Saturne was one as well, as you so eagerly and frequently stated. But what her actual relationship with Porter was may never be known.”
“He had a small stake in Le Cochon Volant, so there was a definite business relationship, even if only minor,” Linda reminded us. “You know, given her knack for cheating and stealing, and his past, the two of them could have been working together back then to defraud Wiffleton, the co-owner. Maybe they were running a scam like substituting high quality foodstuffs with low-grade items, and pocketing the difference.”
“I wouldn't put anything past her. Maybe those San-Fran days were when her interest in thieving began,” Rey said. “I'm still curious about the whys, though – like, why Jensen and why Porter?”
“Why Percival? Or for that matter, Thomas?” Linda added.
Adwin dipped a madeleine in cream-laced coffee. “If you don't mind me playing Joe Mannix for a minute, how about this? Who better to help Prunella gain regular access to the house than the household cook? It's a slam dunk. They most likely had blackmail material on each other from those San Francisco days. Maybe Prunella had more on Porter than he did on her, what with the bomb or whatever caused the explosion, but either way, they had stuff on each other that bonded them for life … until one bond, and life, had to be terminated for the other to continue.”
Linda eyed him curiously, as if considering his assumptions, then nodded. “Once you dance with the Devil, you're his partner for life.”
“But who's the Devil? Porter or Prunella?” Adwin bit into his little sponge cake carefully, trying to avoid contact with scabbed lips. He gazed around the room before stopping at me. “You mentioned that nothing could be proven in terms of the explosion, so it's anyone's guess as to whether it was an actual accident or not, but considering what you've told me about Porter's past, I'm inclined to think he had a self-centered, dark streak. Let's go back to that scathing restaurant review. As a proud chef, he would have been angry and humiliated, so he'd have wanted payback. I'd want the same if someone claimed my Cherry-Berry Chiffon Cloud Cake was bland or boring.”
“But you'd never act on it,” I said.
“Wouldn't I? It's amazing what you can do with butter cream or a roux,” he responded with a strange smile. After another bite, he continued. “Regardless whether Porter knew the critic would be at Le Couchon Volant with Prunella, or alone, he wasn't going to stop with his plan to exact revenge. If Prunella
was a casualty, it was no skin off his nose.”
“But it was skin off her chest and sites unknown,” I said matter-of-factly. “Believing he was responsible, which wouldn't have been hard to assume, she kept silent –”
“Until she needed something,” Rey jumped in, “and that was Porter's services here at the mansion.”
“What about the frozen fish episode?” Linda asked, bemused. “Had she done it in retaliation for the explosion, or had she simply become super stressed or manic as she was recuperating?”
“It may have been a spontaneous act – strain and anxiety taking its toll – or it may have been strictly for show. Prunella had made her point.” I smiled wryly. “Or rather the swordfish had.”
Aunt Mat leaned her head one way and then the other, as if absorbing the validity of what had been put forward. “In retrospect, it does seem odd that over the years Prunella never went into the kitchen or had any interaction with Porter … not that my guests normally did, what with the man's self-proclaimed shyness. But Percival managed to exchange a few words with Porter whenever he went to get water or soda, which he was always pleased to announce upon return. I believe he felt privileged or something.”
“How did Prunella react when he did that?” Linda asked.
A groove deepened below Aunt Mat's hairline. “She ignored him and moved on to other topics.”
Rey said, “Obviously she wanted it to seem as if they didn't know each other.”
“That was probably fine with Porter,” Adwin acknowledged. “I'd certainly want to stay out of someone's way if they held something threatening over me. The guy undoubtedly came here to turn over a new leaf and had no idea who lived nearby. He settled in nicely and was happy in his new private cook role. And then what happened? Queen Dragon Lady re-entered. Suddenly, everything was turned upside-down. He must have felt a stiff noose tighten around that thick neck.”
“And the only way to loosen it was to do Queen Dragon Lady's bidding,” Linda frowned. “Did that make him a poor misfortunate chump or a cold-blooded conniver?”
May-Lee put down a partially eaten trail-mix cookie and gazed sadly at her friend. “How awful for you to have conspiracy and collusion under your very roof – from people you cared for and trusted.”
“Conspiracy, allusion, and murder.” Linda rose and stepped alongside Rey. “Dang, that was one kooky lady.”
Rey's unspoken comment was registered on her face: takes one to know one.
Lewis reentered, Budd on his heels. “We're going to put you up at a cornah hotel for today and tomorrow. We'll have a couple of officahs keep watch, just in case, uh … just in case.”
“That Augustus Jacob Lewis, sounds suspiciously like 'you're under house arrest',” Aunt Mat sniffed.
“Mathildah Moone, I'm simply being vigilant and ensuring your warmth and safety. With no powah at the house, you're much bettah to remain in town for a couple of days. As you're aware, buses are on holiday schedule today. A train has derailed four miles east of here and it looks like signal lighting at the station is faulty, so there's no service at the moment. Who knows when they'll have everything cleared and fixed. It'd be best to remain in town, and I'd prefer that you do, but if you all really want to return to the house –”
“No!” rang the unanimous responses.
* * *
By the time we'd gotten settled in the hotel rooms it was after 6:00 a.m. Mini shopping excursions, quick naps, and light snacks during the windy, gray day quickly brought us to six p.m. The weather had finally cleared and warmed up a couple of degrees, but it promised to be cloudy and blustery for at least two more days. No matter. Even if it hadn't obliterated unpleasant memories, being away from the Moone mansion had quelled stress and tension.
“Man, this thing's as comfortable as a cheese cutter.” Rey, grousing, was lying on a single cot in a corner fourth-floor hotel room she, Aunt Mat, and I were sharing. A heavy wool blanket was draped over bare legs.
“You can always share my bed,” I offered.
“Why don't you take this thing and I'll take the bed?”
“Because you lost the coin toss.”
She stuck out her tongue.
“Will you stop? It's a nice room: warm and antique-y.” I was lying on my stomach on a comfortable double bed that would have made Mama Bear happy. “We've got dinner coming, a cute guard in the hallway, and a selection of good shows and movies.”
Rey peeled off a huge thick camel-hair sweater that had belonged to our uncle. She'd found it folded among several others on an upper shelf in the first-floor rear closet when she'd decided to do a little more snooping. “The blond one is hunky, isn't he, but I'm not getting why we need a guard.”
I shrugged and continued to brush my hair. “Maybe the sheriff thinks crazy Prunella will find a way of exacting revenge.”
Rey snorted. “Yeah. I can see the woman – dressed like Madam Mummy – escaping the hospital confines.”
“The water's still hot,” Aunt Mat announced as she stepped from the bathroom, a large plush towel draped around her head and a thick fleecy bathrobe enwrapped around her lilac-scented body. She'd purchased the cranberry robe with matching spa slippers in a designer bed-and-bathroom shop across the street, and had bought me an ivy-green ensemble and Rey a watermelon-pink one. My cousin hopped to her feet and grabbed hers from the back of a wingchair in the corner.
Our aunt moved before a maple mini bar resembling a bisected globe, opened it, and surveyed the contents. “The wine selection is dubious, but the gin, vodka and blended Scotch are drinkable. Would anyone else care for an aperitif before dinner?”
“Make mine a double gin with lots of ice and a touch of tonic.” Rey stepped into the bathroom.
“Mine, too.” What the heck? A good stiff drink could be just what the doc ordered. I tossed the brush onto a nightstand, rolled onto my back, and eyed the French patterned ceiling relief made of traditional hand-cast plaster. “I'm surprised Linda opted to share a room with May-Lee.”
“Why wouldn't she? May-Lee's very likeable.” After Aunt Mat prepared the drinks and placed them on an end table, she sat down on a caned French bergere-style bow-fronted bed, propping two huge pillows against a curved walnut headboard. She leaned back with a contented sigh. “Linda must be tired of the whole nasty business and if she's going to get any peace, she knows May-Lee's a better choice for a roommate. The three of us won't cease talking about it.”
I sat upright and took a long sip. The icy-cold floral-toned alcohol warmed a path from my freshly scrubbed face all the way down to my newly painted gladiola-red toes. I wiggled them and absently noted how nicely the red worked with the green robe.
“I'm surprised Adwin didn't suggest you two share a room.”
I grinned. “He must be tired of the whole nasty business, and knows we won't cease talking about it.”
We laughed and toasted each other across the room.
“He was pretty adamant about having quiet and lots of sleep. He knew he'd not get either if we stayed together, so he selected Fred the Cat as a roommate.” I took another sip and sighed softly. It felt good to sit back, relax, and be free of the madness of the preceding days. “Do you think Lewis is keeping close watch on the Bird Lady from Hell?”
“He'd be a fool not to,” Aunt Mat responded. “I wonder how she'll do once – if – she recovers.”
“The early morning surgery was successful. Lewis called while you were in the shower to say the doctors were more optimistic than not.”
“I was referring to her mental state. That mallet may have caused facial disfigurement, but the knock to the head had to have resulted in some cerebral damage. And you have to wonder: just how sound or stable was she to begin with?”
“You've known her a long time –”
“Apparently not long enough,” she sniffed, “to realize she wasn't who I thought she was.”
I smiled dryly. “She was either a great actress or a truly demented individual. Or likely a little
of both. Whatever the case, no one would have – could have – been the wiser.”
My cell phone announced a call. I grabbed it from the corner of the bed where it had been tossed earlier. Caller ID informed me that Johnny Gorcey was calling. “Hey Sherlock.”
He chuckled, then sobered. “I heard about the murder.”
“I'd make a joke about 'dropping like flies', but I might actually laugh.”
“Laughter's a good cure-all.” He drew on something, maybe one of those cigarillos I imagined he might smoke. “I got something on those two people: Gruber Pathos and Santana Anna Dinero. It took a bit of prying and delving.”
“I'm all ears, my friend.”
“Pathos appears to have been 'born' ten years ago. He showed up as a major client for a Spanish company … owned by Percival Sayers.”
I sat pillar straight. This was getting interesting. “Major as in purchaser of countless antiquities and the like?”
“That's right. I managed to get a list of items this guy bought. My investigator instincts told me to see what exactly had been purchased by friends and relatives of Sayers. Don't ask how I got the lists,” he advised. “Are you sitting down?”
“I am.”
“Almost all the articles purchased by Pathos were the same as those purchased by your aunt's hubby … at discounted prices.”
Stunned, I couldn't speak for several seconds. “This has to mean that Gruber Pathos was the scammer, the replacer of authentic pieces with fakes.”
“I'd have to agree. He was purchasing replicas.”
“What other details have you got? Is there a photo?”
“There's no photo to be found, but he resides in Zurich and heads an offshore investment company headquartered in the Commonwealth of Dominica. He also oversees a non-profit agency with a focus on eco-friendly manufacturing in Latin and South America.”
“Curious. Thomas Saturne did pro-bono work for non-profits.”
“There may be a connection if we dig deeper.”
“What about Dinero?”
He grunted. “There's no information on her before she became a board member of a Swiss investment firm.”
