by Alex P. Berg
Shay sniffed and retreated to a window to gaze upon the mansion’s courtyard, or perhaps one of them given the place’s size. I turned my attention back to the work of art, hoping to ferret out a piece of information I could later flourish in the face of a suspect, hopefully with a triumphant ‘Aha!’ to accompany it. Modesty in regards to my work accomplishments has never been a strong suit of mine.
I heard footsteps and turned in time to see a tall man in his mid-fifties enter the sitting room, followed closely by Lothorien Willowswitch. Much as the butler had, he breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing us.
“Detectives,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Welcome to my home. I’m Marcus Vanderfeller. Thank you very much for coming.”
The senior-most Vanderfeller stood about my height, with broad shoulders and a bit of a paunch that was almost completely hidden by his brilliantly tailored three-piece suit. Superficially, he looked much the same as he did in the family portrait, with prominent cheekbones, a hook nose, and dark brown hair parted on the side and swept with pomade. Grey salted his hair, something I hadn’t spotted in the painting, but then again a top hat had obscured most of his head, and the painting was eight years old to boot. A rough stubble covered his cheeks, perhaps a casualty of his wife’s disappearance, and the skin around his eyes sagged. Unlike Lothorien’s pale complexion, Marcus’s was more sallow. Was that also a result of his anxiety or an indication of a more serious problem?
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vanderfeller,” I said, stepping forward and shaking the man’s hand. “I’m Detective Jake Daggers, and this is my partner, Shay Steele. We understand your wife has gone missing?”
Shay stepped forth and shook the man’s hand as well. As Vanderfeller let go, perhaps a little reluctantly, he nodded. “That’s correct, I’m afraid. Please, come with me to my office. We can discuss the details there.”
I started to ask why we couldn’t discuss the details of Clarice’s disappearance where we were, then caught myself. If I recalled correctly, the wealthy obeyed all sorts of convoluted rules concerning propriety, such as which fork one should use for which course, or which finger one should lift while drinking tea, or who a young lady could be seen with in public. In all likelihood, they also obeyed rules about what sorts of activities one could partake in certain rooms. I suppose when you had hundreds of them, it made sense to use as many as possible.
Shay and I followed Marcus into the hallway, down several corridors, up a flight of stairs, and into the man’s private office. Lothorien joined us, trailing and closing the room’s doors behind us.
Vanderfeller headed to a velvet-padded chair behind a broad lacquered desk. A letter opener, envelope holder, stationery tray, fountain pen holder, and matching inkwell had been tastefully arranged across its surface. A gleaming brass statuette of a titan holding the world above his shoulders graced a corner of the hardwood. As Marcus settled into his throne, a puff of resigned air escaped the chair, although on second thought perhaps the sound had originated from the man instead.
“Once again, thank you for your assistance,” said Marcus. “Can I offer you beverages? Lothorien will happily provide you with anything you desire.”
“Nothing for me, thank you,” said Shay as she settled into one of the chairs facing Marcus’s desk. “You, Daggers?”
I’d bypassed the guest chairs and crossed to the wall at Vanderfeller’s back, where built-in bookshelves stretched to fill every inch of space. Thick tomes with leather bindings, gold embossed lettering, and elegant filigrees on the spines filled the shelves to about the three-quarter mark, enough to allow for each stretch of literature to be capped with an expensive bookend, mostly bronze busts of old, balding men or marble carvings of horned animals. Based on the titles, the books covered the gamut, from medical texts to encyclopedias to classic literature—also known as ten pound sleep aids. I suspected the works had been selected more for looks than their contents, as the bindings didn’t show a single crease or wear mark.
“Daggers?”
Shay’s voice forced me to turn. She shot me a piqued, elevated eyebrow, the sort of look that might normally be accompanied by crossed arms and a tapping foot.
I took the hint, heading to the open chair and taking a seat. “I’m fine, thanks. And I hope I’m not being brusque, Mr. Vanderfeller, but I’d rather dispense with the pleasantries and get straight to business. Your wife is missing. We’re here to find her. To have any hope of doing so, we’ll need to learn everything you know about the situation and then some.”
A pair of stained glass lamps flanked Marcus, sending flickering rays of light across his sallow face. He glanced at Lothorien and nodded, I thought to dismiss him, but the butler stayed. Perhaps the motion was thanks for being available and ready to assist.
Marcus sighed, definitely him this time and not the cushion. “Of course, detectives. Let me see. Where should I start? I first noticed my wife, Clarice, missing two days ago. I reported her as such later that evening, but perhaps that doesn’t mean as much without context. Are you familiar with our family’s story, such as it is?”
“A little,” said Steele. “Mostly the elements that are common knowledge or were reported in the papers. Our captain gave us a brief overview this morning.”
“So I imagine you’re aware of the Vanderfeller curse?”
“Curse?” I leaned forward in my chair. “What are you talking about?”
Marcus snorted in a thoroughly mirthless manner. “A term invented by some of the more sensationalist papers. I always thought if anything the only curse our family bore was the inevitable one associated with wealth, but perhaps there’s truth to it. Wealth cannot explain, for example, the death of Clarice’s mother during childbirth. Her husband, Clarice’s father, Edward, was grief-stricken over the loss. Certainly, he never acted particularly cheerful in life, as I knew him.
“But I’m getting ahead of myself. Those who believe in the curse say it started upon Frederick Vanderfeller’s death, upon whose back everything around you was built. His children fought bitterly over his wealth, Edward included. Ultimately Clarice’s father inherited a goodly portion, including this estate, but the infighting was hostile, heated, and bitter. It left the family in shambles, and the Vanderfeller businesses in a similar state. Edward, sadly, was not the businessman his father was. He ran two of the businesses he inherited into the ground, and was forced to sell a third to cover their debts. Still, that left him with wealth to spare, at least until his passing from sudden heart failure fifteen years ago.
“I suppose with his death, that left us as the lucky successors to the curse. I myself entered the picture twenty-four years ago, when Clarice and I married. I took her name, as you’ve undoubtedly noticed, because it meant quite a lot to Clarice, and because I came from a less noteworthy family. To be honest, our early years were filled with joy, blessed as they were with the births of our children, Simon, Sydney, Angela, and then…Nell, shortly after Edward’s death. Perhaps that was a foreboding, because our joy didn’t last.
“We continued to weather financial troubles as the children grew, but the curse didn’t strike in earnest until seven years ago. Out of the blue one evening, our servants’ quarters caught fire. Burned to the ground overnight. Two of the most well-liked members of our staff died inside.”
Shay lifted an eyebrow. “Burned to the ground? How is that possible?”
I was about to explain the concept of fire to her when thankfully Marcus cut me off before I had a chance to make a fool of myself.
“The Aldermont contains some servants quarters in the house proper,” he said, “but during its construction, it took on a life of its own, growing to a size unanticipated during the initial phase of design. An additional servants’ home was built in back of the manor, on the grounds. It’s that structure that burned down. At the time, we had more servants in our employ than we do now, most still living in said structure. And then, a mere two days after the fire…”
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Marcus grimaced, gritting his teeth. He reached into his jacket and removed a small bottle, from which he drew a white tablet. He popped it into his mouth and swallowed.
“Apologies,” he said, replacing the bottle. “My ulcer. It acts up any time I think of Nell. She disappeared in the immediate wake of the fire. She was never found, as I’m sure you’re aware. Our pain became front page fodder for every newspaper in the city.”
“Wait,” I said. “Your daughter disappeared forty-eight hours after your servants’ quarters burned down?”
“An unfortunate coincidence,” said Marcus, “or so the investigators reassured us at the time. Then again, given that her disappearance was never solved, I’m not sure how much faith I place in their statements. If one believes in the curse, then the timing is anything but circumstantial. Combined, the two events cut deep into our souls.”
“And now, with the disappearance of your wife, this so called curse strikes again,” said Shay. “At least it gave you some reprieve over the last seven years.”
Marcus locked eyes with my partner, his gaze lingering. “I think you meant that in good faith, but sadly, the curse has been wrecking havoc on our lives ever since. And this is what you need to know about Clarice’s disappearance. It’s been ongoing for years. She only vanished for good a few days ago.”
I felt my brow wrinkle. “Sorry, Mr. Vanderfeller, but you’re going to have to make a lot more sense than that if you want our help.”
Marcus shook his head. “Clarice was never the same after Nell’s virtual evaporation. She turned inward, slowly at first, but steadily. In the beginning, it was mostly evident in her personality. She spoke less, ate less. Didn’t appreciate to be touched, even by her own daughters, or me. As the years passed, she became more and more reclusive. About three years ago, she stopped leaving the house entirely. Then she refused to leave her room. Preferred not to be seen by anyone, in fact. Our staff would bring meals up and leave them in her quarters while she retreated to her boudoir. Same with cleaning. It would be performed piecemeal so she wouldn’t need to come in contact with anyone. We installed speaking tubes running from her room to strategic points around the house so she could call for assistance if need be. Even I’d go weeks without seeing her sometimes. And now? She’s finally gone for good…”
Marcus sighed and hung his head. I half expected a tear to form at the corner of one of his eyes, but perhaps he’d run himself dry. As I stared at him, I felt a twinge in my chest. A mild heart attack, perhaps, but after testing my eyebrows and fingers and lungs and finding them all to work I realized it must’ve been something else. Sympathy. For a multi-gajillionaire. Go figure.
“So, Mr. Vanderfeller,” said Shay after giving the man a moment to compose himself, “we’ll need to know a few more details to begin our investigation. When was the last time you saw your wife? And where?”
“In her bedroom,” said Marcus. “Just over two weeks ago. I was passing through on the way to my own quarters when I caught a glimpse of her, heading to her bath. I’d knocked, but I must’ve caught her unawares.”
“Two weeks?” said Shay. “Yet you only reported her missing two days ago. Why?”
“As I said, such a period without laying eyes on her was common,” said Marcus. “But she did communicate with myself and Lothorien and our cleaning staff through the tubes. She also ate, though grazingly. It was only after not having heard from her in two days and after the wait staff reported she hadn’t touched her meals in the same period that I grew concerned. I went into her quarters to look for her, but…she was gone.”
“And did you search the rest of the house for her?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Marcus. “I set the entirety of our staff to the task. We searched every room in the estate, every nook and cranny, and combed through the grounds as best we could. We found no trace of her. It’s as if she vanished into thin air.”
I glanced at Shay. She peered back with a raised eyebrow. Though she wasn’t one to fall head over heels for supernatural explanations, I could tell her curiosity had been piqued.
“Well,” I said to Marcus. “I suppose the first place we should look for clues is in her bedchamber. Can you lead us there?”
“Of course,” he said with a nod. “Follow me.”
6
The door to Clarice’s bedroom creaked as Marcus opened it. We followed him in, again trailed by Lothorien. Dust motes swirled in thin beams of light that snuck through heavy curtains over the windows. I blinked as I adjusted to the gloom, wrinkling my nose as I tried to discern the smell. An unassailable must hung in the air, an old, closed-off sort of scent traced with hints of body odor and floral fragrances, maybe rose oil or potpourri. I didn’t smell the metallic tang of blood, however, nor the unmistakable rotten funk of decay.
Shay crossed to the windows and put her hands on the drapes. She looked at Marcus. “May I?”
He hesitated. “Ah…of course.”
“You’d prefer I didn’t?”
“No,” said Marcus. “It’s simply that…I haven’t touched anything in here since Clarice’s disappearance, except for having the servants remove her uneaten meals. I didn’t want to disturb her possible…final moments here. Call me superstitious. But you’re the investigators. Do as you must.”
“Believe it or not, your superstitions will be helpful,” said Steele. “We prefer undisturbed crime scenes whenever we can get them.”
She threw open the drapes. Light streamed in, illuminating the room’s contents. Standard rich person fare filled it, enormous hardwood cabinets and dressers with inlaid mirrors, padded chairs and vanities set with vases and more stained-glass lamps, not to mention a canopy bed whose construction had kept an artisan’s family fed for years.
I wasn’t interested in any of the woodwork or any particular piece of furniture’s construction, but I walked the room and took a look at it all regardless. I wasn’t the master of observation Steele was, but I still knew what to look for. Gouges or scrapes in the wood. Blunted corners. Cracks. I found a few blemishes here and there, but none of them recent. In fact, all of them appeared to have been repaired. Normal wear and tear, then.
I turned my attention to the walls and floors. A blue and white floral wall paper covered the former except for the area near the bed which was covered in a wooden veneer, a large crosshatching pattern that gave the wall depth. Neither of them exhibited any smears or friction marks. Rugs covered the floors, mostly of a light cream color, which made my investigation easier.
I stopped by another pair of drapes and threw them open. A pair of glass doors hid behind them, leading to a balcony. On our way to Clarice’s room, we’d taken the stairs to the third floor, and the sight before me validated that. The estate’s grounds stretched before the yawning lip of the balcony, bright and vibrant with that maybe-not-so-terrible bright green of early spring.
Steele stepped next to me. She pointed at the door handles. “Latched.”
I nodded. “Looks like the windows are, too. Not that it makes much difference. I’m not sure anyone could’ve gotten down from that balcony without equipment. Or up it, for that matter. Did you have a chance to wander into the attached boudoir and bathroom?”
“Briefly. I saw more of the same.”
Marcus leaned over to make sure we could see him. “Pardon? Have you found anything?”
I tipped my head toward Shay. “You want to give him the rundown?”
“Sure. What Detective Daggers and I have been looking for are signs of struggle. If someone forcibly removed your wife from her quarters, she presumably would’ve fought back, even if only weakly. That usually leaves evidence. It might be overt, such as a smashed mirror or a torn wall hanging, or it might be subtle, such as scuff mark on a hardwood floor caused by a heavily planted foot. So far, neither of us have seen any suspicious markings whatsoever. Neither have we spotted any blood on the room’s absorbent surfaces, which obviously is a good thing
. All of it means Mrs. Vanderfeller likely wasn’t forced into leaving her quarters.”
Marcus affixed Steele with an oddly empty sort of look. “So where did she go, then?”
“Good question,” I said. “We noticed the windows and balcony are latched. If you’re right that this room hasn’t been touched since her disappearance, then she couldn’t have escaped that way. It probably wouldn’t have been feasible anyway given the balcony’s height. Which leaves one obvious explanation for how Clarice escaped.”
I lifted a hand and pointed toward the door.
Marcus followed my finger, mouth slightly agape. “I’m sorry…are you suggesting my wife simply got up and walked away?”
“It’s the only logical explanation,” I said. “Why she did so or where she went once she left the confines of her quarters are entirely different questions, however.”
Marcus shook his head. “I beg to disagree, Detective. Perhaps it’s an easy conclusion for you to come to, but you didn’t know Clarice as I did. You didn’t watch her transform from a bright, youthful, cheerful woman to a timid shut-in. She could barely meet my eyes in recent years. To walk free of her room? I doubt she was capable of such a feat.”
Doubt. A word that implied uncertainty. Marcus claimed his wife was a recluse, but in terms of physical space or human contact? He also said his wife had transformed, one had to assume almost beyond belief if his tale was true. How well did Marcus know his wife anymore?
I didn’t ask for fear of upsetting the man.
“So you said you last saw your wife a little over two weeks ago,” said Steele, “but you heard her more recently, through the speaking tubes.” My partner pointed at them, a series of four tubes with conical mouthpieces attached to a panel next to the front door.