by Tyler Colins
My cousin looked blank. “You've lost me.”
“There's no arguing that she went on those trips, but what if someone arranged for them? What if someone paid for them?”
“What are you talking about? She called in sick and made excuses to have time off.”
“What if they were just that – excuses? Her traveling to the places where Moone members died could have been arranged. There are coincidences and there are coincidences: calculated ones.”
“Then you're saying she wasn't involved?” She looked as confused as a contestant on a game show having to choose between three prizes hidden behind three big boxes.
“What if she was meant to be in all those places when the Moones died so that at some future date, if events were questioned or accounts crumbled, it would appear as if she was responsible for those deaths?”
“It all seems so mindbogglingly fantastic,” Rey said with a deep sigh, eyeing the vending machine. I bought two more PayDays and we regarded the space above each other's heads as we munched and ruminated. “Do you really think it was Aunt Mat behind the deaths?” she asked once she reached the next-to-last bite.
“There was no love lost between the lot of them. She so much as said so. People kill for lesser reasons.”
Rey wiped nut fragments from her lips. “Maybe she's a true kook, like most of the family has claimed over the years.” She frowned. “The Fonnes didn't think much of her marrying Reginald. I wonder why none of them died, other than from old age or ailments.”
“The Fonnes weren't overly vocal about their feelings, at least not when our aunt was around, which wasn't often. Nor did they visibly shun her. The Moones, on the other hand, were arrogant and cruel. They ill-treated her, snubbed, and betrayed her.”
“Okay, I'll buy killing judgmental, in-your-face-rude relatives. But now – brother-in-law Jensen aside – she starts killing non-Moones? Is she that crazy or blood-thirsty?”
“If you were zany to begin with and then you became super pissed off –”
“And had someone fuelling that pissed-off state – sure,” she declared, straightening. “Yeah, you might just snap.”
In contemplative silence we got into the elevator and found a grim, weary-faced Budd leaning into a mirrored wall, a cardboard tray of coffees in one gloved hand and a large take-out bag in the other. He looked us up and down.
“We needed to get out of the room for a bit,” I said with an casual smile. “It looks like it's been a very long day for you.”
He managed a weak smile in return. “It's been a very long week.”
* * *
Linda peered into the winding corridor, blinking against the bright hall light.
Rey pushed her way into the L-shaped room and I followed. It was smaller than ours, its eighteenth-century replica furniture bathed in topaz thanks to raised stripe-print Roman shades that enabled a huge neon cocktail lounge sign across a quiet snow-lined boulevard to shine through. On the farthest four-poster oak bed, May-Lee reclined on top of a gold-and-peridot striped quilt. She was wearing Natori animal-print pajamas and engrossed in an old Jonathan Kellerman novel.
“No early night for you two?” Rey asked with a sassy smile.
Dressed in a baggy mustard-yellow T and flannel pants with huge sunflowers on them, Linda jerked a thumb at the wall. “Who can sleep? Frick and Frack keep alternating between high-school lovemaking and gang war-zone hate. I'm not sure which is more disturbing: the groaning and moaning or the swearing and slapping.”
“A good book helps distract,” May-Lee held hers up. “To a point.”
Rey switched on a fake Tiffany bedside lamp and sat on the edge of a second four-poster oak bed. “It's quiet now.”
Linda smirked. “Give it five or ten seconds.”
Sure enough, “Frick and Frack” started swearing and yelling like agitated guests on a Maury Povich episode. Rey regarded the lamp beside her, shook her head, and reached into a nightstand drawer. Extracting a Bible, she thumped it twice against the wall.
“That's sacrilegious, isn't it?” Linda asked, moving alongside a wheat-shield wall medallion, her expression grim.
“What's sacrilegious is the way those two numb-nuts are behaving at this time of night.”
Someone banged back.
Rey's brow shot up. She rose and stamped from the room.
Linda smirked. “Trouble's on its way.”
I had to chuckle. Two minutes later, Rey returned, her expression smugly triumphant. “They'll be behaving more like Bert and Ernie on Valium now. Where were we?” She dropped into a boxy, padded armchair in a far corner of the room.
I turned to May-Lee. “Do you think we could talk to Linda in private?”
“You could,” she smiled dryly, “but at this point are there any reasons to keep secrets from one another?”
“There's no reason May-Lee shouldn't stay,” Linda stated firmly.
I dropped into a plush recamier sofa across from Rey. “I'm going to bet the trips you took at the time of the Moone deaths were arranged by someone other than yourself. Who?”
Linda's eyes widened. Then, she sighed. “That 'someone' is a good guy and I don't see that it matters who arranged the trips.”
Rey looked surprised. “A guy? Who?”
“A distant cousin … John Jonah Smith.” Linda moved to the window and stared onto the street. “I haven't seen John since I was a kid, but he's been nice enough to send me on a few spa retreats over the years. He and Mom had always been close. A few months after the accident, he sent a letter explaining he'd once promised Mom that should she not be around, he'd check regularly on my brother Lido, my sister Loretta, and me.”
“I hope you're not ending the story there,” Rey said after several seconds of silence, then held up a hand. “Hold on. John Jonah Smith? … I've heard that name before. Where?”
“Maybe when we were hanging out in the evenings – you memorizing lines and me emailing or writing.” She scanned her friend's face. “I think I recall mentioning him a couple of times way back when. Anyway, there's not much of story. Cousin John had always been shy and awkward with people, so his idea of checking in was two or three times a year. End of short, dull story.”
“He's a writer or something like that, right? Where's he live?”
Linda crossed her arms. “He was a freelance writer, right – primarily of articles and manuals related to engineering, aviation, and science. I used to read his stuff now and again. It was very dry, but kind of fascinating. He had residences in New York and Atlanta, but since he retired from writing and the world a few years ago, he's been living outside Portland, Maine.” She looked at me. “In the beginning, he'd send a postcard every six months. Then a few years later, when I was in my twenties, he'd started to send how-are-you-doing emails.
“He'd also started sending sweets: primarily chocolate-covered almonds and salt-water taffy. His favorites maybe. And starting about six years ago, every ten months or so, he sent an airline or train ticket to a nice little spa, as well as a hundred dollars. He said he had contacts and got good deals, so I shouldn't worry about it or question it, just accept and enjoy.
“In terms of Lido, he sent theater and film tickets and books, because Lido loves both. Loretta would get Hummel figurines, because those were her thing. He claimed it was the least he could do for the family, especially because he had so much, thanks to his successful real estate broker dad, and we had … well, lots less.”
I asked, “When did you last receive a gift from him?”
Linda frowned. “A couple summers ago, I guess.”
“He sent you to Myrtle Beach, the same week that Helena Moone died?”
“Yes, I suppose,” she replied quietly.
“Has he emailed you since?”
“Yes, three times.”
“In recent years, he usually gets in touch through emails. No calls?”
“There were no calls, ever, but I do have a telephone number somewhere. And it's a Yahoo address before you ask.”
“You didn't think it strange that he never picked up the phone?”
“Cousin John suffered from laryngeal cancer eight years ago. He once wrote that he shied away from speaking because he sounded like a toad with a bullfrog in its throat.” Linda regarded me for several seconds. “I come from an unusual family. We never did – or do – things in a 'normal' way. We've all been known to be quirky and some may even say eccentric, like the Moones.”
Rey snorted. “You obviously haven't heard enough about the Fonnes. Now there's eccentric if not crazy.”
Linda chuckled, as did Rey and I, while May-Lee regarded us with something akin to sadness.
I turned to the lounge sign, which started flickering, then died. So did most of the lights on the other side of the boulevard. “Throat cancer's a great excuse for not picking up the phone and talking.”
“I was ten or so when I last saw him at Aunt Nora's and nineteen when he got in touch again. I don't think I'd have recognized his voice one way or the other, if you're trying to suggest it may have been someone pretending to be Cousin John.”
Rey leaned back and scanned the scriptwriting assistant's face. “You might have recognized Aunt Mat's, even if it had been disguised.”
Linda looked dubious. “I don't think I'd have recognized hers, either. I'd only met her once before coming here – when she visited you for a week – and talked to her twice on the phone.” Her eyes widened. “Are you suggesting your Aunt Mat is involved?”
“My good heavens,” May-Lee murmured, sitting upright. “Are you?”
Rey gazed from one to the other, her expression solemn. “It's a strong possibility.”
Linda looked as perplexed as a recently-elected politician being questioned about broken campaign promises. “I'm officially confused.”
Rey nodded to me. “Jilly thinks Aunt Mat killed those Moones.”
May Lee's “why?” came out as a shriek.
“Vengeance. She hated the Moones.”
“But Reginald loved her,” May-Lee said. “… Didn't he?”
“I wonder,” I murmured.
“You think he married her for what – money?” Linda appeared perplexed. “She had none. Isn't that what you told me, Rey? He, on the other hand, had tons.”
“He did,” she affirmed.
“She was young and pretty, and quite a character,” I pointed out. “Very tempting and desirable for an older, unsociable gent.”
“She was full of jokes and pranks, and silly-fun ideas,” Rey added. “An old, cold fart meets a pretty, young thing full of whim –”
“Vim,” I corrected automatically.
“Whatever. She was the type of woman he thought he'd never attract in a hundred years.”
“Not 'attract'. Own,” I emphasized. “He collected things, remember?”
“He collected oddities,” May-Lee affirmed quietly.
“And she is pretty odd.” Rey smiled wryly. She gazed from one face to the next and slammed a fist into a palm. “First thing tomorrow Linda, I want you to track down your cousin. Let's see if he's one and the same who's been sending you on retreats.”
“I can do that.” Linda glanced from Rey to me. “But who's going to prove any of it if John denies it all? Who's going to prove I didn't go after those Moones, now that you've served that crazy idea to the police on a silver platter?”
Rey rose, stretched, and paced the thick French beige carpet. I did the same.
“I suppose pawing through rooms at the Moone house isn't going to do much good,” Linda sighed. “As if there'd be proof to be found.”
I halted. “You're right, there'd be no proof. The rooms have already been searched – for different reasons, at different times, by different people. There'd be nothing incriminating lying around.”
“How about Porter?” May-Lee asked.
I shook my head again. “He may have kept something incriminating to protect himself, but it would have been related to Prunella – his 'just in case' if she trod on his toes too heavily. And it would certainly have been removed when he died. There'd be no loose ends.”
Rey ceased pacing. “What about under floorboards –”
“Or in hidden drawers?” I finished with a smile.
She arched a shoulder. “If there are secret passageways, why not secret drawers and compartments?”
“If they exist, all evidence would now be gone as Jill said. Your aunt is smart, and from what you're suggesting, pretty damn crazy,” Linda responded grimly. “Like Prunella.”
“Who's to say she knows every nook and cranny?” Rey persisted.
“She'd have known; she's lived in the place forever – a”
“But she didn't know about all the passageways –”
“She claimed she didn't. Drop it, Rey,” I insisted.
Determination crossed Linda's face. “What about the Sayers' place?”
“What would we be looking for there?” May-Lee asked, curious.
“Something implicating.” I moved back to the sofa but didn't sit. “Finding proof will be next to impossible. Getting a confession from our aunt: same.”
“I hear a 'but'?” Linda coaxed.
“If Mathilda Moone believed we knew what to find and where to find it, because Prunella revealed something in the corridor while she was waving the gun.”
“Something like a diary maybe?” Linda suggested eagerly with a gleeful smile.
“That's perfect Linda!” May-Lee smiled brightly. “A diary could detail transactions and doings, and names.”
Rey clapped. “I love where this is going.”
“Saying the two women are partners, I can't believe your aunt would have allowed Prunella to kill you. Besides the fact you're blood relatives, she's truly very fond of you.” May-Lee's brow puckered. “I'm also finding it difficult to believe that we're talking about two potentially insane women having gone on two different killing sprees. What are the odds?”
Rey eyed me. “When May-Lee words it that way, it does seem unbelievable.”
“In terms of Prunella, I'm fairly sure she was only planning on frightening us. She was probably going to lock us in an underground room and then inform someone where to find us once she was well gone. As for Aunt Mat, we're only theorizing. Again, those deaths could have been true accidents.”
Rey appeared uncertain. “Maybe.”
“If Prunella had killed us, she'd have had Aunt Mat to answer to. As May-Lee suggested, and we're inclined to agree, she is fond of us. I can't see Aunt Mat letting Prunella get away with murdering Rey and myself.” I turned to May-Lee. “As for the Moone murders, if they were that, Aunt Mat can be the only other candidate if Linda didn't –”
“I didn't!”
I smiled at Linda. “Prunella would have had no reason to kill those Moones –”
“Other than the fact she's f'g nuts,” Rey sneered.
“It doesn't fit,” I said with a firm shake of my head. “The Moones lived in various cities in different states. How could the birder have known them? She kills for a reason, with purpose.”
Rey's expression was grim. “We should check with Lewis about Prunella in the morning. Maybe she's revealed something since surgery.”
“I doubt she'll awaken any time soon. Or be coherent anyway. She'd have to have been pretty doped up since they brought her in,” Linda said.
“Even if she did speak, why would the sheriff be inclined to share the information with us?” May-Lee asked.
“Why would he not?” Rey challenged.
May-Lee smiled and rose. “I want a soda.” She moved across the room and returned with four Cokes and straws. “I thought you might all like something cold, sweet and fizzy.”
We did.
“Jill, perhaps this is the scenario you have in mind?” She took a quick sip. “You and your cousin are cornered in a cold, damp subterranean passageway. Prunella discloses something – such as her having kept detailed diaries over the years – because you asked or she wanted to boast.
She decided to share this information, as either you'd be dead soon and the secret would die with you, or you'd be languishing in a hidden room until she was faraway gone. Then it wouldn't matter.” Her gaze locked on mine. “Here's the ten-thousand-dollar question: why didn't you say anything about diaries to the police? Your Aunt Mat is going to wonder, if not ask. I certainly would.”
“Easy peasy.” I chuckled. “I always wanted to say that –”
“So Ms. Easy Peasy, why didn't we say anything earlier?” Rey demanded.
My smile bordered on the saucy. “Because we wanted to sneak over to the Sayers' house and get those diaries before the police did. Everyone – Lewis most of all, right? – knows we enjoy playing amateur detectives. We're inquisitive and persistent enough to want to solve the crimes.”
May-Lee slipped onto the edge of the sofa, her expression eager and alert. “Why would it be in our best interests to be the ones to retrieve those darling little telltale books and not allow the police to find them, if they existed?”
I grinned. “Because we're inquisitive and persistent enough to want to solve the crimes.”
May-Lee laughed while Linda looked pensive. “Maybe we better put our heads together and get our ducks in a row.”
“I believe that's Anas platyrhynchos in a row.”
Rey smirked. “Prunella would be so proud.”
28
If the Diary Fits …
Seated at a large corner table by the only two windows in the hotel dining lounge, the group gulped back tar-strong coffee and devoured fluffy blueberry pancakes with homemade cherry preserves and local maple syrup like there was no tomorrow. Reminiscent of a coastal B&B, the place was cozy-quaint, warm from a log fire in a corner glass fireplace, and fragrant with sweet and savory morning cooking smells. Sheer pale-blue chiffon-like panels hung in one corner by a huge maple hutch filled with empty jam and Mason jars from various decades. Watercolors of valleys, gardens, and farms lined two walls; colorful ceramic vases and plates made by local artists on floral-carved pine shelving lined another. Predominant colors were soothing shades of copper rose and moonstone blue.
The four-lane main street was quiet. Testing freshly shoveled sidewalks were a happy looking middle-aged couple and their playful Collie and Schnauzer. All four sported similar plaid coats, which I found heartwarmingly cute and May-Lee thought inanely comical. The only vehicles to have passed in the last ten minutes were a slow-moving police cruiser, an electrician's van, and an old multi-dented Volvo that looked as if it had been parked in the middle of a golf driving range for a month.
