by Alex P. Berg
The ogre closed the door behind him, about twenty feet in front of us on the path.
“Ah,” called Steele. “You must be Fezig.”
For a security guard, he didn’t have the greatest peripheral vision. He jumped and spun, though he didn’t get much air. Maybe a few inches. For guys his size, I’d seen worse.
His broad forehead wrinkled and his wide lips stretched as he took stock of the situation. “Hey! Who are you? You’re not supposed to be here. This is a private estate. Don’t even think to run!”
“We weren’t going to run,” said Steele, closing the gap. “We’re the police investigators. Steele and Daggers.” She indicated which was which with her thumb.
“Investigators?”
“You know,” I said. “Detectives. Inspectors. Gumshoes. Sleuths. Dicks, of the investigative kind, though the term applies to me in a number of ways.”
The ogre’s face flattened some more, as if squished between the hot plates of an invisible toasting iron.
“I’m guessing Lothorien hasn’t told you yet,” said Steele.
The ogre crossed his arms, his muscles bulging through the thin wool of his sport coat. “Let’s see some ID.”
We both produced our badges and let the hired goon take a good long look at them. Eventually, he uncrossed his arms and nodded. “Alright. Seems to check out. You here about Mrs. Vanderfeller?”
I left the snark tucked away inside me this time, mostly because I didn’t want to find out how easily the dude could clean and press me. “That we are. You’re Fezig, I take it?”
“That’s right. Me and my brother Vezig provide the muscle around here.”
“Literally as well as figuratively, I assume.”
Fezig smiled, revealing a mouthful of teeth far whiter and straighter than I ever guessed a guy in his profession could have. “Hah. Yeah. We do get roped into moving furniture now and then, or at least we used to. Back when things were different. But I can’t complain. It’s a pretty cushy job. Uninvited guests tend not to make it this far into Brentford. Honestly, in my eight years here, I’ve caught more poachers than thieves.”
“Poachers sneak onto the property?” asked Steele.
“Oh, yeah,” said Fezig. “We’ve got deer. Rabbits. Fish. Plenty of good eats. Those are a lot better than skewered rats and alley cats, trust me.”
I did. He looked like the sort of guy who wasn’t picky about his meat. “So, about Mrs. Vanderfeller…”
Fezig’s smile faded. “Right. About that. I don’t really know what to say. It almost seems unfair given what this family has suffered through already. We were all pretty…shocked, I guess is the word, when we found out she’d gone missing.”
“Given that you run security around here,” said Steele, “do you have any insights into what might’ve happened?”
Fezig shook his head. “If you’re asking me to speculate on where she went or who might’ve snatched her, I’d rather not. It wouldn’t help, anyway. I’d be guessing, pure and simple. But I’m happy to talk shop if you’re interested. Tell you about what I do around here. All that jazz.”
We both nodded.
“Alright. Let me start with duties. Vezig and I trade off shifts. I work from eight in the morning to eight in the evening, and my brother works through the night. He’s always been a night owl, so it works out. He hits the sack at about eight and wakes up around four, whereas I’m usually up until eleven or midnight and then snooze until seven. So there’s a good seven hours when we’re both up, but we’re only officially on duty from eight to eight.
“As far as what I do? Mostly I wear out my knees patrolling the grounds. As I understand it, in the old days guys had set routes to follow, even had sign-in sheets to keep track of what they’d looked over and when, but that was before the current Vanderfellers trimmed the fat. Mr. and Mrs. Vanderfeller never provided me with a set beat, just told me to keep an eye out and keep everyone safe, more or less. So that’s what I do. I spend most of my time outside, close to the manor itself, except when it’s cold. Then I stick inside the walls.
“I’ll note that before the end of my shift each night, I walk around the house and make sure all the first floor windows and doors are latched. We don’t worry about it during the day—as I mentioned, it’s safe here—but I check to make sure they’re closed for the evening, even with Vezig on duty. Second floor and above we don’t bother with. It’s a big home. It needs the air flow.”
I snorted. That seemed like an understatement. “Let’s talk specifics. From what Mr. Vanderfeller told us, Mrs. Vanderfeller disappeared between two and four days ago. What can you tell us about what happened during that period of time? Do you recall any abnormalities? Things out of place? Folks acting strange? I’m guessing no trespassers.”
“Definitely not that last one,” said Fezig. “Stuff out of place? Not that I can think of. I locked all the doors and windows as usual each evening, and found them as I would’ve expected the following mornings. And as far as people acting strange? I guess that shows how unfamiliar you are with the folks around here.”
Shay lifted an eyebrow. “Care to explain?”
“Everyone here is odd,” said Fezig. “And antisocial to boot. Not that the environment is conducive to forming tight bonds. The house is enormous, never mind the grounds. You can go hours without seeing a soul.”
“We’ve noticed,” I said. “Which isn’t helpful when you’re trying to track down an individual who went missing.”
Fezig nodded. “Exactly. The situation is better during the day, but at night? It’s just my brother out there. If I were trying to vanish, or make someone vanish, that’s when I’d do it. Between midnight and six. But what do I know? You should ask Vezig.”
Shay cocked her head. “Are you telling me you haven’t discussed Mrs. Vanderfeller’s disappearance with him?”
“Of course I have,” said Fezig. “He didn’t see anything. But I know how you cops work. You won’t take my word for it. You want first hand sources for everything.”
In that, Fezig only spoke a half truth. He was right I wouldn’t take his word for his brother’s actions, but I wouldn’t take Vezig’s either. I didn’t believe anybody. It was my job not to.
I pointed at the door. “So where does this lead?”
“The south wing,” said Fezig. “There’s a few guest quarters in there. A living room. One of Angela’s art galleries. The south library. Simon’s quarters.”
“Simon Vanderfeller?” I asked. “We should meet with him. Is he in?”
Fezig frowned. “Uh…I don’t know. I think so. Yes.”
“You don’t know? Didn’t you bother to look?”
“Why would I?”
“Isn’t it your job to know?” I said. “You were patrolling the house, weren’t you?”
“Um…” Fezig blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, I was patrolling the place.”
“I thought you said you mostly stay outside when the weather’s nice,” said Steele.
Fezig blinked again and glanced between the two of us. Suddenly, we found ourselves in the midst of an interrogation. I hadn’t been prepared for that. Luckily, neither had Fezig.
“Okay, fine. You got me. I wasn’t patrolling the grounds. I was taking a break. Talking to Simon. We had business to discuss.”
“What sort of business?” I asked.
“Business business. Family stuff. Security. He’s next in line, you know. We talk.”
Shay lifted an eyebrow. I kept silent. Sadly, Fezig didn’t dive into the pit of sharpened stakes voluntarily.
“Look, I need to get back to my patrol,” he said. “Nice chatting with you. I’ll, ah…see you around, I guess.”
Fezig trundled off up the path at a pace that seemed faster than it needed to be even accounting for his long legs.
I turned to Shay. “That was weird, don’t you think?”
“Really? I spend all day around you. I barely notice anymore.”
“Liar. You notice, and you toil tirelessly behind the scenes to mold me into something slightly less odd.”
“But only slightly.” She smiled.
So did I. I cracked the side door and held it open.
11
Simon’s room lay behind the third door handle we tested. I probably should’ve knocked, but Marcus had granted us free rein over his home, and I figured announcing our presence would only serve as an opportunity for our culprit to hide the body. Maybe I’d send in Shay first for the women’s quarters. Maybe…
I stomped into the room. Simon Vanderfeller spun from his position in front of a mirror, adjusting the tie of his black, satin trimmed suit.
He glared at us. “Beg your pardon, but these are private quarters. I only take audiences by invite only.”
I didn’t have to ask who he was. His face told me for him. He looked remarkably similar to his father, with the same prominent cheekbones, hooked nose, and dark brown hair. The differences, as would be expected, were in his youth, weight, and health. Rather than drooping from some undiagnosed malady, the young man’s skin stood firm, healthy, and supple. His suit fit him like a glove, a trim, able-bodied one at that, and his eyes twinkled, though not out of mirth if his demeanor was any indication.
“Sorry to intrude,” I lied as I stepped into the room, a more masculine rendition of his mother’s apartment. “Simon Vanderfeller, I take it? We’re detectives, with the police. Here to investigate your mother’s disappearance?”
“Yes. Lothorien dropped by. Mentioned you were here.” He turned back to the mirror, tilting his head to and fro as he smoothed his jacket’s lapels.
“Fezig mentioned you were in. Grudgingly. Mind if we ask you some questions?”
“Of course not.” Simon shot us a glance and an accompanying insincere smile. “But it’ll have to wait. I’m late as it is.”
“For what?” asked Steele.
“A social gathering.” He tucked a wallet from a vanity into his pocket and slipped a watch over his wrist. “You understand, I’m sure.”
“I don’t, actually,” I said. “Attending a party is more important to you than discussing your mother’s disappearance?”
His eyes swept across the vanity’s surface. Satisfied with what they found, he stepped over join us near the door. “No. It isn’t. But I don’t have any desire to speak with you. And to be completely honest, I don’t much care for whatever happened to my mother, either. I haven’t seen her in years. Now, if you don’t mind…”
He lifted a hand, as if to tap me on the shoulder or flick me out of the way, but apparently he thought better of it. With a resigned sniff, he skirted me and exited without another word.
His footsteps receded. I glanced at Steele. “I don’t like him very much.”
“Now you know how I felt when I met you.”
I frowned. “Come on. I instilled in you more of a frothing rage. That guy’s just a prick.”
“Oh, he’s more than just a prick,” said Shay. “He happens to be a conceited, at least superficially suave prick who’s in line to inherit the Vanderfeller estate.”
“Making him a prime suspect in the disappearance of his mother.”
“Only if his father were to likewise go missing,” said Shay. “I was thinking more along the lines that his position makes it so Marcus doesn’t have any leverage over him, unlike he does over his employees. There’s nothing we can do to make him talk to us short of getting a warrant.”
“And the same will be true of all of the Vanderfeller children,” I said. “Which means I guess we’ll have to be charming and personable from here on out.”
“And here I thought you were already on your best behavior. You’ve only insulted two people so far today.”
I could only think of one, but I let it slide. “Any ideas who we should go after next?”
“Vezig seems like an individual who might be able to shed light on the situation.”
I frowned. “Yeah, I don’t really want to deal with an irritable four hundred pound ogre going on four hours of sleep. Why don’t we leave him for late afternoon?”
Shay shrugged. “Well, we need to talk to everyone sooner or later. It also makes sense to familiarize ourselves with the home. You never know where we might find an errant clue Marcus’s team of amateur investigators might’ve missed. Why don’t we wander?”
It was as good a suggestion as any. We headed out of the prodigal son’s bedchamber and down the hallway, sweeping through the adjacent living room and library before reaching a wide open foyer.
As we stepped out amid the tall columns that held up the ceiling three stories above us, my ears perked. A haunting melody drifted down the stairs, a poignant collection of notes plucked from deft fingertips, some piercing, some joyful, some angry, but all infused with an undercurrent of sadness. I felt them trickle into me, seep through my layers of muscle and tissue into my bones where they reverberated and took hold of me. Possessed me, but in a metaphorical sense, not a phantasmagorical one.
I shivered nonetheless. “What’s that?”
Shay peered up the stairs. “Well, it’s a string instrument, for sure. Perhaps a harp?”
“I more or less figured that out. What I meant was, who’s playing such a melancholy tune?”
“You should learn to me more specific, then.”
I huffed and took to the stairs, heading up to the second floor landing. From the ground level, I could tell the melody had originated from above, but as I neared the source, I could no longer discern where it come from. Behind me, in the second floor hallways? Up on the third floor? Across the expanse of the foyer, on the other side?
Shay joined me at the banister. “Having issues?”
“I can’t tell where the music is coming from. It bounces around. Must be the acoustics.”
“I noticed that earlier, myself,” said Shay. “When we first entered the manor. Could be a good or a bad thing for us in terms of the investigation. Sound carries, but it’s hard to localize.”
A soft, dry voice. “She’s on the third floor.”
Shay and I both spun. A young woman stood behind us, a few inches over five feet in height and somewhere in her middle teens. Arrow straight, pale blonde hair fell around her face down to her ribs, hair that seemed even straighter due to her perfect posture. She stared at us over high cheekbones and a sharp nose, her smooth, pressed-together lips betraying no hints of surprise, concern, or even curiosity.
I tried to find my voice. “What? Where…? Who…?”
“Sydney,” said the young lady. “My sister. You’ll find her on the third floor. There’s a nook in the back overlooking the grounds. One of her harps is there. She enjoys playing it from time to time.”
“Your sister,” said Shay. “You must be Angela.”
Her eyes flicked toward Shay, either as a confirmation of the statement or to size her up. Even though she hadn’t responded in the affirmative, the portrait of the Vanderfeller family I’d studied earlier proved Shay’s assertion.
“You shouldn’t trust her, you know.”
“Who?” I asked. “Your sister Sydney?”
“To be fair though, you shouldn’t trust much of anyone around here.”
“Why?” I asked.
She surprised me by responding. “Because everyone has an angle, and no one is who they seem. Except for me. I’m exactly who I seem.”
“And who is that?” asked Shay.
Angela shrugged and turned. “Pay attention. Perhaps you’ll see.”
She wandered back toward the second floor hallway from which she’d snuck up on us, or so I assumed. The alternative gave me the willies.
“Wait,” I called as she crossed from the light of the foyer into the shadow of the corridor. “We’ll need to talk to you. About your mother.”
“Then find me in my studio. I won’t be going anywhere.”
With that, she blended into the da
rkness, her pale, platinum blonde hair shimmering for a few seconds in the gloom before fading.
I glanced at Shay. The harp’s haunting melody continued to play.
“So…Sydney then?” Shay’s voice remained calm, but she’d set her jaw in a decidedly taut fashion.
“Yeah. Sure. Let’s do that.”
12
We headed along the railing, up to the third floor and to the back of the home, following Angela’s directions as much as the harp’s haunting melody. There, in a bay ensconced by two hundred and seventy degrees of windows, we found Sydney, or so I assumed given Angela’s declaration and the surprisingly accurate Vanderfeller family portrait I’d studied downstairs. Thus far, all the physical characteristics the portrait had depicted had proved accurate, from Simon’s pompous smirk to Angela’s odd aura now to Sydney’s head of curls and homely countenance.
She sat upon a padded bench, the body of the harp tilted and resting against her. Her golden locks spilled over her shoulders and onto the upper reaches of an expensive dress, one with multiple layers of pale blue tulle that spread out from her hips and trailed along the floor. A necklace of perfectly spherical pearls dangled from her neck, gleaming in the late morning light. The ensemble seemed too ostentatious for someone playing the harp in the comfort of their own home, if not necessarily out of place for an individual playing the harp in general.
As usual, I shot forth with my brightest display of wit. “Holy crap, that thing’s big!”
I meant the harp—the sucker was almost as tall as I was—but given my lack of specificity, I imagine my interjection could’ve been misinterpreted. Luckily, Sydney didn’t have any odd, misshapen tumors about which I might’ve been speaking.
Her hands flowed over the harp’s strings like dancers in a ballet, but at the sound of my voice, Sydney brought them to a halt. She looked up from the instrument. “You must be the detectives.”
“That’s right.” I made the introductions, this time without making a fool of myself or shouting as if I had a psychiatric disorder. “I’m guessing Lothorien told you about us.”