For a few moments, there was silence, except for the sound of leaves rustling as the wind moved them and the heavy tick of a nearby clock. Then, just as the lights came back on, leaving her blinking, a scream pierced through the night, loud and shrill. Rachel threw up a hand to shield her eyes from the suddenly bright lights as the shouts continued to ring out.
"Murder! Murder!" Rachel heard a woman shout. "Help! Police!"
*****
Chapter 4
Where There's Smoke
Immediately, Scott and Rachel rushed outside, Grandma Mallory wheeling herself after them. In the hallway, Zizka was standing frozen with giant splashes of icing staining her uniform and a deformed lump on the floor that Rachel immediately recognized as her strawberry cake.
"Goodness, Zizka. Was that you making all that noise? Have you lost your mind, girl?" Grandma Mallory demanded. She took a breath, ready to explode, but Zizka seemed to not even notice.
She was frozen. Raising a trembling hand, Zizka pointed toward the parlor. Almost immediately, another scream burst from it — a woman crying out, "Help!"
Scott, reacting with a lawman's instinct, instantly sprinted down the foyer and into the parlor with Rachel right on his heels. They burst through the door and stood stunned for a second.
On the opposite side of the room, near another set of doors that led down to a second hallway, Aunt Paris was on her knees, clutching her arms around herself and taking deep breaths. Her poofy blonde hair was now in complete disarray and her eyes were wide with shock. Her eyes were fixed on one corner of the room but, from where she stood, all Rachel could see was an overturned chair and a pair of legs clad in white pants stretching out beside it.
“Johnny's dead.” Aunt Paris' voice was soft, but stretched thin as though she were on the edge of hysteria. “I thought I heard something so I came out to see what was happening and—“ She was trembling. “Someone's killed him.”
She began sobbing.
"Hey, now." Scott moved forward, immediately blocking Aunt Paris' view of the body, and raising her up gently. "Let's not think of this just yet. You've had a terrible shock. Why don't we get you a drink?"
"Someone brushed past me in the dark!" Aunt Paris exclaimed. "Oh, my God. The killer. It must have been the killer. I've been touched by evil!" And with this, Aunt Paris' eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted right into Scott's arms.
Scott gave a little grunt and took a step back to balance himself. From the passage, Rachel heard doors opening and voices mixing together. Uncle Jordan and Aunt Bethany entered the room from behind Aunt Paris, and both of them gave little screams as they caught sight of Johnny Hayes' body.
Rachel herself felt a bit frozen. All the voices and screams seemed to come from far away — all she could hear was her own blood pulsing in her veins, drowning out the rest. The darkness that had seemed so intimate to her just minutes ago now seemed ominous, for someone had used it as a cover for murder.
She found her feet moving forward of their own accord and she glanced at the corpse. Instantly, she knew that he had been strangled. A pair of white earphones lay in a tangled heap next to the body and an open magazine lay face-down a few feet away.
Rachel could almost picture what had happened. The armchair had stood next to the fireplace, facing it, and Johnny Hayes had been sitting there with the magazine in hand when the killer had crept up behind him in the dark. Then what? Most likely, the killer had used the headphones as a garrote and strangled him.
"Rachel. A little help please?" Rachel looked up, blinking, and saw Scott and Uncle Jordan still struggling to seat Aunt Paris upon a chair. "Call 911,” Scott said in a firm voice, drawing her attention.
"Yes, of course." Rachel felt as though her brain were wading through a pool full of molasses. Everything was happening in slow motion.
As Rachel pulled out her phone, Aunt Bethany appeared again, saying, "I've called the police. They'll be sending someone over immediately."
Aunt Paris groaned, her eyes opening. She gave a frightened squeak as she caught sight of the overturned chair, but Scott lowered his head until the two of them were eye level.
"Come on now, Aunt Paris. You've been very brave. You're going to go with Aunt Bethany and Uncle Jordan now, okay? Gather everyone else — and I mean everyone — and sit together in the family room until the police get here. We want the evidence to remain as undisturbed as possible."
Uncle Jordan nodded. His face looked ashen. "I'll see to it that everyone stays together,” he said.
"Good." Scott nodded. "Now, does anyone know where the fusebox is?"
"The cellar,” Aunt Bethany said. Her hands were trembling, too, and her fingers nervously went up to her mouth in a gesture that any ex-smoker would have recognized. The sign of a stressed woman who desperately needed a puff to clear her head.
"Alright, Aunt Bethany. We’re going to lock up this room and maybe you can take Rachel and me down there. Then we'll go into the family room ourselves."
"What do you want to fiddle around in the cellar for?" Uncle Jordan frowned. "You should come sit with us, too."
"It won't take more than five minutes,” Scott said. "Let's go."
The cellar was all shadows and damp, neither of which helped Rachel's mood much. She knew exactly why Scott wanted to be there — someone had clearly tampered with the lights earlier and he was trying to find a clue. But, all the same, part of her wished that he'd just taken Uncle Jordan's suggestion and stayed upstairs with the rest of the family till the Bertford Police arrived.
Aunt Bethany was clearly wishing the same thing. She showed them the cellar door but refused to enter it, preferring to stay out as they climbed down the stairs. Rachel had a vague impression of stone walls, boxes of old knick-knacks and stacks of broken furniture as she descended. The primitive part of her mind screamed that any shadow might be the killer waiting to pounce, even as logic told her that tangling with a sheriff was the last thing a killer would want to do.
Watching Scott gave her the courage she lacked on her own. His shoulders were square and his eyes narrowed as he walked toward the fusebox. The flashlight on his phone was on despite the dim light flooding the cellar from a distant bulb. He used it to highlight the fusebox without saying a word.
The fusebox door was open, displaying line after line of neatly marked switches that made no sense to her.
"The wiring in this place clearly hasn't been touched in a long time,” Scott muttered. "I haven't seen old-fashioned switches like these in a while." His flashlight paused on one in particular. "That's the main switch,” he said. His brow was furrowed. He swept his flashlight on the ground and paused again.
A cigarette stub and a gold lighter lay on the floor near the fuse box. Rachel gave a little exclamation as she saw the initials on the lighter. Dark carbon dust stood in a line in the middle of the lighter, obscuring the initials a little, so that Rachel could not tell whether it was PM or BM. Paris Mutton or Bethany Mutton.
"Come on, Rach, let's get out of here,” Scott said. "We've had our look around and the rest is up to the Bertford Police now."
"So you won't be the lead investigator on this case?" Rachel asked.
"Not a chance." Scott gave her a crooked grin. "For one thing, Mulberry Mansion is outside my jurisdiction and, even if it wasn’t, I would have recused myself. I'm too deep in the middle of things, aren't I? There's no way I could be an objective investigator. No, I'm going to let the Berties handle it."
"You don't give yourself enough credit,” Rachel said. "You look like a very objective investigator to me."
They shut the cellar door behind them and moved to the family room with Aunt Bethany in tow. Rachel saw Aunt Bethany do that particular motion of the hands again — wiping two fingers up near her lips as though she were bringing an invisible cigarette there.
"Did you quit smoking recently?" Rachel asked.
"Huh?" Aunt Bethany looked up at her, startled.
"Smoking. You’ve done
this…” Rachel repeated the gesture, “twice now, and I was just wondering if you were an ex-smoker."
"You're sharp,” Aunt Bethany smiled. "Yes. I used to smoke. Took me some self control to give it up, too. I can't complain, though. I'm much healthier now. But, I tell you, I still crave one every time I'm stressed."
"It'll get better with time,” Rachel said. "I hope."
"Sure, my body definitely thanked me for giving it up. But it's been two years and, when the cravings come, they're just as bad as they used to be. I forced Jordan to quit, too. Though he still tends to smoke behind my back. Men think they're so smart but there's not much us wives don't know."
Rachel could tell Scott was listening to this conversation very carefully even as he walked a step ahead of them. She could only see the back of his head, but the stiff way he held his neck told her that he was mentally recording everything Bethany had just said and, very likely, connecting it to the lighter and cigarette down in the cellar.
*****
Chapter 5
Pink Cake & Panic
Once again, as they opened the door to the family room, all heads turned to stare at them. Uncle Sidney was sitting at the piano again, his elbows on the keys and his chin resting on his closed fists. Uncle Jordan was by the side-table, another glass of whisky held in both hands. Aunt Paris, meanwhile, was lying down on the sofa with a towel covering her eyes, groaning intermittently as the maid, Zizka, offered her some water.
Only Grandma Mallory and Sidney's son, Tyler, seemed unaffected by the whole thing. Grandma Mallory had a bible open upon her lap and was muttering to herself as she read from it, very deliberately ignoring all the rest. Tyler, meanwhile, was tapping away on his phone once again, occasionally pausing to tug uneasily at his very tight, black T-shirt.
That's funny. Rachel thought. He was wearing a green hoodie before.
"I hear you ordered Jordan to keep us all in here?" Grandma Mallory barked as Scott shut the doors behind him.
"Only until the police are here,” Scott said soothingly.
"Well, I won't stand for it. It's my house and if somebody's had the nerve to go about get killed inside it, I should be allowed to see it with my own two eyes,” Grandma Mallory said.
Uncle Jordan gulped down his whisky in one straight swallow and turned to his mother with slightly watering eyes. "I told you, Mama. Scott's a sheriff. The best thing we can do is listen to him. We're really lucky he's even here tonight."
Grandma Mallory sniffed. "That's a matter of opinion. Jordan's being an absolute bully and you're the one who put him up to it. Ridiculous. Why, Zizka's clothes are positively covered in cake and he won't even let her go change! It's inhumane!"
“I’m fine, Mrs. Mallory. Please,“ Zizka protested, "I'd rather not be alone—”
"Rubbish. I despise sloppiness. You'll get that awful sticky frosting all over my furniture. Besides, you dropped some in the hallway and you need to clean it up before the police get here. It's despicable! Everyone's gone and stepped in the cake and I have frosting all over my clean floors. What will Captain Walter think if he walks into the house and sees cake all over the hallway? We'll look like filthy animals."
"Grandma Mallory, I'm sure he'll understand,” Scott said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "The house is very well kept and these are special circumstances." There was real kindness in his voice this time, and Rachel realized with a shock what Scott had probably seen as soon as he entered the room — Grandma Mallory wasn't as unaffected by the events as she was pretending to be. She was terrified. She wouldn’t, however, permit herself to show fear, so she was being cantankerous instead.
But the green eyes that had shone with haughtiness before were now darting here and there, racing as quickly as her thoughts.
"And your uniform is quite ruined!" Grandma Mallory exclaimed, turning on Zizka once again. "Of all the carelessness! How did you manage to drop my birthday cake that way?!"
Zizka began trembling a little and Rachel felt a twinge of pity for her. She looked like a half drowned puppy shivering in the rain. There was even some frosting clinging to her hair.
"I told you, Ma'am.” Zizka explained. "I was bringing the cake from the kitchen to the family room when someone bumped me in the dark. I fell down, and by the time I stood up again, the lights had come on and Miss Paris was screaming from the parlor."
"Someone bumped you?" Scott asked sharply. "Could you tell who it was in the dark?"
"What were you doing walking down a hallway carrying my cake in the dark?" Grandma Mallory scolded. "Don't talk rubbish about someone bumping you. You probably bumped into a wall. What do you expect if you do foolish things like—“
"I've been here thirty five years,” Zizka said, with all the dignity she could muster. "I could walk this house blindfolded with a pot of water on my head and never spill a drop. I'm telling you, Mrs Mallory, someone bumped me."
"The killer!" Aunt Paris groaned. "It had to have been the killer! He brushed past me, too, and turned right. It all makes sense."
"Yes. Paris is right, Mama,” Uncle Jordan said. "It must be the killer who bumped into Zizka."
"If it was the killer,” Rachel considered, “he — or she — would also have some frosting on them, surely. At least on the underside of their shoe, or maybe on their clothes. We should, um, check."
"That's no help to us now,” Jordan pointed out. "I was nowhere near the hallway and even I've got some on my shoes. Zizka dropped the cake right in front of the family room. We've all trampled in it."
"True." Tyler nodded, looking at his own sneakers. Rachel looked down at her own feet and saw a pink splash on her own green ballerinas.
"You say you were nowhere near the hallway?” Uncle Sid piped up suddenly. "So where were you, Jordan?"
Jordan's face colored. "Are you implying something, Siddy boy?"
"I'm just asking." Uncle Sid's face was wary. "We should all, well, the police are going to ask where we were anyway. We might as well tell each other, too."
"Where were you, then?" Jordan pressed aggressively. "What's your alibi, Mr. I-have-a-doctorate?"
In the face of his brother's aggression, Uncle Sidney instantly shifted back to his pacifying tone. "I didn't mean to offend you, Jordan."
"No? Well, you did a good job anyway,” Jordan shot back. "Why am I the first person you asked? Ask your son where he was, or ask Paris or Scott!”
"Well, Tyler was with me,” Uncle Sid said. "We were both getting Mama's present from my room when the lights went out. We decided to just sit there and wait until they came on again. When we heard the screams, we came out immediately and saw Scott and Rachel running to the parlor, while Zizka and Mama were standing in the hallway."
"They did come out of the room together,” Zizka nodded.
"Oh, so your alibi's allll worked out,” Jordan snorted. "Good for you! How about you, Paris? Where were you when the lights went out? We all know you were in the parlor when they came on again. Maybe you snuck in and killed ol' Johnny in the dark. Then you did your little fainting act after the lights came on."
Tears sprang into Aunt Paris' eyes. "How can you even think that, Jordan? You're terrible."
"And you're not answering my questions!" Jordan exclaimed.
"Well, you didn't answer Sid’s, either,” Paris said.
Scott stepped in, raising his hand to stop them both. "Listen, we're all very stressed here. Let's not start fighting with each other. We need to stick together."
"Stick together? It has to be one of us,” Jordan said. "One of us, right here in this room, is the killer. Do you understand that, you idiot? Of course I'm going to ask who did it. Especially if Sid is going to start throwing accusations around.”
For a split second, there was a sudden silence as everyone realized the truth in Jordan's words. Mulberry Mansion had a six foot wall topped with spikes surrounding it and a large iron gate that could only be opened from the inside. In effect, the place was a fort. And Johnny Hayes was defi
nitely dead. Which meant that the enemy lurked among them. As the terrible thought sunk in, silence was replaced with confusion as everyone started talking at once.
"Oh! Oh, how horrible!” Aunt Paris honked her nose loudly.
"Jordan, dear, you've had enough of that whisky…” Aunt Bethany said.
"I wasn't accusing you,” Uncle Sidney protested. "I was just—“
"Qui-et!" Grandma Mallory's voice cut through the growing babble of voices as cleanly as a scissor gliding through wrapping paper.
A nervous silence filled the room. Not a soul seemed to want to make eye contact with the others. Slowly, painfully, Grandma Mallory lifted herself out of the wheelchair and stood unsteadily on her own two feet. Her green eyes were steady once more, and flashing with fire this time.
"Everybody will sit down and shut up until the police get here,” Grandma Mallory said. "If I hear a single word out of the lot of you, there'll be another murder here tonight, and I'll be the one committing it!"
Uncle Jordan opened his mouth to protest but under his mother's steely gaze, he immediately relented. Outside, they could hear the sound of sirens as the police arrived.
*****
Chapter 6
The Estrangement
Outside, a drumroll of rain fell, releasing an invisible steam that filled Rachel's nose with the smell of the earth and her mind with memories of her childhood. Days like this were meant to be spent curled up by a window with a comfortable blanket, a hot mug of soup and a good book. Instead, Rachel found herself carrying a cloud of melancholy around with her.
She hadn't been able to come home until very late the night before, and poor Scooter had been almost frantic when he saw her. He'd absolutely refused to leave her side and, although she didn't normally allow it, Rachel had let the little pup slip into bed with her. She didn't know whether she did it to calm Scooter or herself — the murder had left her feeling quite shaken.
Strangulation & Strawberry Cake Page 3
