by Tyler Colins
“You don't think I'm about to leave you alone in there, do you? I'm not having you sneak out the window, or finding some obscure weapon like a toilet brush to use on me. I watch cheesy movies too, you know.”
My cousin exhaled loudly and marched into a marble-heavy bathroom. “Privacy, if you don't mind.”
We all turned, save May-Lee. “I've seen it all before.”
Rey grumbled and we took quick turns freshening up, biding time as notions of flight ran through every head. Four anxious women contemplated ways of escaping an oddly lucid woman wielding a Webley revolver and one considered how to gain freedom from said four anxious captives, three of whom smelled like a bar and one a perfumery.
“Before I forget: put your cell phones on the counter, please.”
Linda was the only one who had brought one. On the counter it went. With a clunk.
As we filed back into the hallway, with a trace of sarcasm, I instructed May-Lee Sonit to send a postcard.
“Of course, darling,” she winked. “I'll send a few.”
“You know, you remind me of someone,” Linda murmured, clearly perplexed as she considered who it was.
“Hannibal Lector,” Rey responded coolly.
“Come now, Reynalda,” May-Lee cajoled. “That's hardly nice or fair.”
“It is a bit much,” I concurred. “May-Lee is more like Mallory Knox of Natural Born Killers or maybe Catherine Tramwell of Basic Instinct.”
“I'm stunned, Jilly. That's amazing.” Rey's tone expressed approval. “I thought your butter tart was the movie buff?”
“I've picked up a lot watching Friday late-night flicks.”
With a fleeting smile, she turned back to our captor. “What now? Are you going to lock us in a closet or something?”
“I'm going to have you tie each other up. See the rope on the duet stool over there? Linda, be so kind as to get it. I'll fasten the last person – you, Reynalda. Now, where would you like to be locked up: the cellar or the tower?”
The simultaneous response: “Tower!”
“The cellar's too dark and damp,” Rey added blandly.
“And spooky.” Linda.
“Toxic and claustrophobic.” Me.
“Cluttered.” Aunt Mat.
“Wonderful. You're all in agreement and I'm happy to comply. Linda.” She gestured and the scriptwriting assistant hurried down the hallway to retrieve the rope. When she returned with the sizeable cord, May-Lee signaled us to proceed. “Start strolling upstairs single file, ladies.”
Up to the tower we tramped. Overthrowing one slim woman with one impressive revolver wouldn't have been that difficult, but who wanted to risk it? The worst case scenario: we'd be locked in the antiquity-filled tower for a couple days, but we'd be alive. Sheriff Lewis and his deputies would start wondering when they'd not heard from us and come looking. She said she'd not kill us, and I tended to believe her. May-Lee Sonit took lives out of necessity – and vengeance – not desire or fun. Whatever floated Prunella Sayers' boat was another story.
Per May-Lee's instructions, Rey began to secure Linda's hands behind her back, after which she'd fasten her to one of two large limestone obelisks and then Aunt Mat.
“Who is – or was – Fred?” I asked Aunt Mat as we watched.
“He was a hired hand, someone Edward, the house steward, liked and gave a job to. Fred proved to be quite a decent stableman and carpenter, so I understood from one of Reggie's Madeira-induced stories. Unfortunately for Fred, he developed a crush on the housekeeper, and she on him. Well, Fred wasn't the only one in love with Valentina – yes, that was her name. The 'master' of the house had it bad for the woman, too.” Aunt Mat smiled sorrowfully. “It was a love affair destined for tragedy.”
Her eyes on Rey, May-Lee agreed.
I peered around casually. Most mystery movies had a dramatic ending. The one to a madcap collect-your-inheritance get-together shouldn't be any different. As Reynalda moved to Linda's ankles, which would eventually be tethered to Aunt Mat's, I surveyed the room filled with my uncle's oddities. What luck. The candelabrum Adwin had handled the other evening was ten feet away and still in the gauntlet of “Lancie”, the 16th-century knight. Casually yet watchfully, I maneuvered over, clutched the large branched candleholder behind me (it might as well have been a stuffed wombat for all its heftiness), and casually moved back again. Thankfully, May-Lee's gaze was still fixed on my cousin and her best friend, implying my aunt and I posed little threat.
“May-Lee?”
“Yes Jill?”
With the velocity of a 90 MPH baseball, the candelabrum struck her upside the head. Before I could think twice, or she could react, it whizzed around to clout the other side. (It was truly amazing what one was capable of when caught in a perilous situation.)
Ignoring blood and ragged flesh – just as I valiantly (desperately) had when I'd struck Prunella Sayers in a corridor several floors below – I grabbed the revolver as Aunt Mat instinctively caught the antique seller's descending body.
“Dang,” Linda whispered, eyes billiard-ball round.
“Double dang.” Rey regarded the inert body. “Man, you have a thing about beaning people, don't you?”
“Is she dead?” Linda studied the woman hanging heavily in Aunt Mat's slender arms.
“No.” I peered closely. “But she'll need tending.”
“She'll need a few stitches for sure. She can take a bed beside Prunella in the hospital.” As Rey hastily untied her friend, Aunt Mat flew down the stairs to call Lewis. Soon the three of us were carrying May-Lee downstairs to her former bedroom.
“Get some towels and a large container of warm water,” Linda instructed Rey as we laid her on the bed.
Rey sprang into action.
“She's looking awfully pale.”
“She's not looking well,” I agreed quietly.
Rey raced back in with Aunt Mat seconds behind. Linda dampened a towel and began dabbing open skin as Aunt Mat dropped into a carved walnut Regence armchair in a corner.
“You know,” the older woman said wryly, “if I weren't so happy at having this be truly and finally over, I'd give you three a piece of my mind for having believed I was the guilty party.”
“Jill, see if you can find gauze, alcohol or disinfectant, and adhesive tape or something similar. I'm going to practice non-existent nursing skills.”
“I'll go – I know where to find those items.” Aunt Mat leaped up and hastened into the hallway.
Rey leaned into the wall beside the bed and looked equally elated and exhausted. “Who'd have expected her to be Prunella's little helper?”
“Apparently, none of us,” I replied. “Let's not get any crazy notions about quitting our day jobs and becoming private investigators.”
“Considering we've never solved a mystery, we did pretty good,” my cousin declared.
“We did okay,” Linda corrected.
Face flushed, Aunt Mat re-entered the room with a large zebra-print plastic cosmetic bag. Dropping it alongside May-Lee, she returned to the armchair. “Those diaries, by the way, weren't bad. Not great. But not horribly bad. Next time, be consistent, and use handwriting. That would make them look more like bona-fide diaries.”
Rey extended her hands. “We had a lot of suppositions, not enough time to investigate, and only a few hours to pull them together.”
“Prunella's insanity must have fuelled May-Lee's,” Linda said, dabbing disinfectant on and around the wounds.
“Was she really insane … or simply audacious?” I wondered aloud.
“Both, even if I don't know what aww-dacious means,” Rey said. “With a whole whack of gutsiness thrown in.”
I had to laugh. “Did Lewis say how long he'd be?”
Aunt Mat shook her head. “No, but I told him to get here as soon as possible and to dispatch an ambulance because May-Lee Sonit has been injured. Then I hung up. There'll be time to talk later… . He'll be disappointed to hear about May-Lee. He really liked her. She's done quite a lot wi
th local charities. But he'll also be thrilled to have a multiple murder case solved.” She released a long exhalation. “It's over, my dears.”
She and Rey exchanged tense smiles as Linda concentrated on administering “non-existent nursing skills”.
“When'd you become the doctoring sort?” Rey asked, curious, stepping closer for a better look.
Linda eyed May-Lee, who hadn't stirred but was still breathing, albeit shallowly. “I felt a need. Strange, huh? Maybe I've found a new calling?” With a slim smile she stopped wrapping her patient's head with thin gauze. “With the way things have been going, I wouldn't be surprised if a supernatural being crashed through a window or sucked us all through a wall.”
I chuckled. “Or maybe Fred the Ghost could appear and congratulate us on a job not so well done.”
A raucous crash from the front of the house caused us to jump and all but kiss the ceiling.
“Dang!” Linda's face was whiter that Adwin's celebrated five-layer coconut cake.
Rey's face made Linda's look like it sported a Brazilian tan. “Shit. It's not possible.”
I was too astonished for words while Aunt Mat's eyeballs seemed to bounce from their sockets as if attached to helical springs.
* * *
“Was that absolutely necessary, Augustus?” Aunt Mat demanded, motioning the damaged ebony doors when we reached the base of the stairs. There was no battering ram in sight, but the entrance seemed to have been smashed by one. Beyond splintered wood was a patchy, starless sky that looked drab and bleak, fitting for the moment.
“You said – screamed – to come quickly, that May-Lee Sonit was injured and down, so we hurried on ovah. We didn't know what to expect,” he responded curtly, scanning the foyer. “Where's her body?”
“She's not a 'body'. She's upstairs and she's injured as I said and you heard.”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “An ambulance is a minute away.”
“Is it true, Mrs. Moone,” Deputy Budd asked, removing his hat. “Is she Ms. Sayers' partner?”
“It's true, sadly.” She cocked her head. “I didn't mention that. How did you know?”
The young man leaned closer. “Ms. Sayers was talking an hour ago. It was hard to speak with all the stitches and tubes, and medication, but she did manage to spit out that Ms. Sonit was 'a partner', that she was a, uh, 'bitch', and that there was going to be 'all hell to pay' when she was up and walking again.”
Aunt Mat's eyes widened and she looked from him to Lewis. “That is one spirited woman.”
“An audacious one,” I said with a slim smile.
“A major whack job,” Rey snorted.
Aunt Mat peered past the sheriff's shoulder. “The paramedics are pulling up. Rey, show them to May-Lee's room. I'll make a couple of big pots of coffee. I suspect everyone will be needing major amounts of caffeine.”
33
All's Well that Ends Well … Sort Of
The last twenty-four hours in Connecticut had proven to be informative … and startling.
Lounging in the kitchen nook later that night, after Lewis et al had departed, Aunt Mat casually delivered a confession that held the impact of a glide bomb. She'd done the deadly deeds: killed Moone family members.
Rey, Linda and I could have used spatulas to scrape our jaws off the table while Aunt Mat hadn't seemed the least bit upset or traumatized or repentant. The statement was as smooth as the liqueur-laced cocoa we were indulging in. “By the way girls, I'm the one who dethroned those Moones.” Then the grande dame explained how she'd set up Linda.
John had died nearly seven years ago. He fell off (jumped off or was pushed off) Portland's Casco Bay Bridge and into the Fore River. Linda's recent search for John Smith had been based on a contact number search, nothing more; hence, the death had not come up in the search and she'd never been the wiser.
Aunt Mat's idea about covering tracks had merely been a kernel when she'd overheard Linda telling Rey about “nice Cousin John” a few years back, but it germinated quickly. If he was thoughtful enough to send boxes of sweet treats, why not other gifts – like books, figurines, a little trips?
The need to establish a scapegoat had become a necessity when Mildred Trapusking-Moone had an electrifying experience one Saturday afternoon while drinking orange-pekoe tea. Faulty wiring caused a short and subsequent (fatal) shock. Apparently her hair was spikier than Ethan Hawke's 2013 bleached-out blond do. This had occurred a year before Jackson Moore was found charcoal-broiled, so we'd missed (at least) one person on the “Moone Murder List”.
According to Aunt Mat, Mildred had been a self-absorbed bitch who perpetually peered down a long W.C. Fields proboscis at everyone not born with five million in a trust fund. Very long story short, Aunt Mat had never expected Linda to actually be convicted of anything. It had been just as we'd bantered about – that setting up Linda was a means of diverting attention elsewhere should something have gone wrong and the Moone deaths discovered not to be accidents.
Aunt Mat was a thorough woman, smart and, well, kind of crazy, yet rationally so. If Linda have actually been handcuffed and mug-shot, Aunt Mat would have plotted another course of action. Legal forces would have been continually confounded.
She'd rather enjoyed the covert game of playing Cousin John while terminating Moones. It proved an amusing pursuit and entertaining challenge. Lucky for her, Linda took it all in stride, but maybe she didn't want to tick the old gal off and end up becoming an “amusing pursuit” herself. Smart thinking.
After the confession, we'd opted for doubles in mugs the size of well buckets, heavy on the whipped cream. If Aunt Mat wasn't feeling anything, either would we (our friend Tia Maria would ensure that).
Who'd have thought creamy hot cocoas could cause such intense hangovers? Around eight the next morning, Rey, Linda and I dragged ourselves into the kitchen wearing jeans and heavy wool sweaters, and lots of concealer (bags with designer labels were much desired, those under the eyes were not). We shared a bottle of Advil, pot of coffee, and minimal conversation. A half hour later Aunt Mat, wearing casual pants and a lovely cashmere sweater of ivory white, entered. Her make-up was flawless, but red-rimmed eyes suggested some suffering. Linda made more coffee and I boiled eggs while Rey toasted and buttered slices of rye. Conversation again was minimal.
Sheriff Lewis had arrived at eleven and stayed for a light lunch, filling us in with nonessential details about what the future held for two “wigged-out killahs”. Suffice it to say, psychiatric assessments and lock-ups were part of the equation. The subject of the murdered Moones wasn't brought up. Why? No one wanted to put the quirky woman behind bars. After all, she was the Fonnes's grande dame, a gentlewoman, and a likeable one at that (killer streak aside). But could we, should we, would we (continue to) look the other way? Time would tell.
What about Sheriff Lewis? He'd heard our suspicions regarding Linda being the Moone killer. Would he pursue them? Or would he chalk them up to the ramblings and unfounded (unsound) reasoning of detective wannabes? Again, time would tell.
Johnny had dug deep enough to discover that the two Swiss folks, Gruber Pathos and Santana Ana Dinero, had indeed been fabricated by Thomas and Prunella. He'd even found a photo taken at a charity event in Geneva that showed the lawyer and bird lover mingling with a bank president and a telecom CEO; underneath the smiling foursome decked in designer eveningwear were the names Gerhardt Spatz, Kurt Heinrich Vogel, Gruber Pathos, and Santana Ana Dinero.
Various entities, including the IRS, were currently investigating. As for closed-mouth Prunella, she had recuperated and was awaiting trial. Mental evaluations had deemed her fit. May-Lee, on the other hand, had suffered a breakdown and was weaving Shaker baskets when she was giggling or doing bird imitations. Yet again, time would tell if the show owner would return to “normal”.
And speaking of time, it was hard to believe that the Connecticut Caper – as Rey laughingly called it – had happened nearly a month ago. Yet in some ways, it fel
t like a year. The entire episode seemed dreamlike and distant.
I dropped onto the only piece of furniture I'd purchased for the Brentwood apartment so far: a beautiful two-piece leather sleeper sectional sofa that set me back a lot more than budgeted for. But it would serve as a perfect focus piece and last for years, and I wasn't planning on being that extravagant with anything else. It rested to the side of a large deep-set fixed window with solid panel shutters. Sitting here, I could gaze four stories below onto a lush courtyard with two burbling fountains.
Christmas was around the corner and it felt strange to not have my nephew Quincy racing around, trying new seasonal recipes, or sticking Quincy-would-like gift suggestions in obvious places. The first week of December, Mom usually had the B&B decorated with lights, holly and ivy, and a couple of tinsel-trimmed Christmas trees. A stunning silver menorah rested on the dining room sidebar for Jewish friends and guests.
I'd made a move to California. Sold all belongings, put the Wilmington condo up for sale, packed clothes, and wondered what I'd gotten myself into besides a three-day weather-forecasting job at a local community television station. I'd have to find other work, of course, if we didn't make money serving as professional sleuths (which I had doubts about), but it was a start. Rey was planning on getting the detective agency going in the next month or so.
Yes, that was correct: detective agency. Back at the Moone manse, as the three of us were packing and making promises to stay in touch, Rey had revealed a plan that she'd been considering since May-Lee had been wheeled away: opening a private investigation agency in California. To make her happy and keep me sane for the remainder of the brief stay, I'd said I'd consider the wild notion that seemed as probable as a Minnesota drought in January. But somewhere and somehow over the weeks, I'd decided maybe it wasn't that wild after all.
Even Linda had gotten caught up in Rey's enthusiasm. I wasn't quite sure how to inform them about California's strict licensure. They'd be devastated to learn they weren't going to be private investigators any time soon. Among other things, we'd need a combination of education in police science, criminal law or justice, experience equaling three years or 6,000 hours, and to pass a criminal history background check. Oh yes, we'd also have to receive a qualifying score on a two-hour written exam. It was surprising that Rey hadn't yet discovered that; or maybe she had and had simply refused to accept facts. In any event, at present, in addition to scouting offices, my cousin had signed up for a business course. Kudos to eager and determined Cousin Reynalda.
