Transposition

by Gregory Ashe

  Somers had been hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but he let out a breath, brought up his best smile, and nodded. “We’ll head right over, Mrs. Ferrell. Can you tell me who you saw?”

  Mrs. Ferrell sniffed again and, wordlessly, bounced her upturned palms.

  Somers was willing to take that as a no, so he said, “They don’t want to kill you, but I’ll talk to them, make sure they understand that they have to be careful. We’ll see what we can do about the window.”

  “Window.” She sniffed. “Cardboard. Duct tape. But they shoot. You are my boy, so you must understand: they shoot me dead.”

  In silence, Somers and Hazard trudged back to the Impala. As they pulled into the thick mud of the dirt road, Hazard turned his scarecrow eyes on Somers.

  “What?” Somers said.

  “You want to explain that?”

  “You saw. Somebody shot out her window.”

  “She kept calling you her boy.”

  The Impala slogged through the muddy trenches, headlights swishing across the wall of brush and old-growth trees. As the vents began to pump warmth into the car, Somers cracked his knuckles and shoved the tips of his fingers towards the heat. Without his hands on the wheel, the Impala jerked and stuttered into the night.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Hazard said. He grabbed the wheel, straightening them out and guiding them back towards the state highway.

  “I don’t know why she calls me that.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I don’t. She’s done it every time I’ve gone out there. I didn’t know her when I was growing up. She’s not a family friend. Can you imagine my mother letting her anywhere near the house?”

  From the dark flicker of anger on Hazard’s face, Somers realized that Hazard knew all too well. As boys, they couldn’t have come from more different backgrounds: Emery Hazard from a working-class family, John-Henry Somerset from privilege and prestige. Grace Elaine, Somers’s mother, had been a socialite, a philanthropically-minded homemaker—she had styled herself, perhaps not fully consciously, after the late Princess Di—and, most importantly, as poisonous as a copperhead and twice as nasty. More than once, Hazard’s mother had been on the receiving end of that poisonous sting, and Somers knew that much of it had been because Hazard had been the only openly gay boy in town.

  “Will you take the wheel, please?”

  “My hands are cold.”

  “So who owns this shooting range?”

  “Well, it used to be Manly Newton, about a hundred years ago.” Somers flexed his fingers, grateful for the warmth after the biting cold of Mrs. Ferrell’s house. “You heard of him?”

  “Newton Park. And isn’t there a Newton settlement about twenty miles south of here? Kind of a failed railroad town, something like that.”

  “Yeah, that’s him. He’s the one that had the big money. He’d made it on the railroad. Back before everything got consolidated into the Missouri Pacific lines, some of the rails were Newton’s. And he built that settlement, mostly trying to make himself a place for the trains to take on water and food without coming through Wahredua. It didn’t work, though, and the settlement boarded up pretty fast.” Somers hesitated. His fingers were plenty warm now, but he liked watching Hazard steer from the passenger seat. His partner did it with the same cool calculation that he did everything. And it didn’t hurt that Somers liked—just under the surface of his thoughts—watching the shift of muscle in Hazard’s hand and forearm.

  “So he built the house, but he’s dead. Who lives there now?”

  “He didn’t just build the house. We’re pretty far out of Wahredua, but this is all still part of the city limits because Manly Newton wanted his house to be inside Wahredua. It had something to do with how he wanted the electricity run out to his house; I don’t really know. So now Wahredua has this weird tail of land that runs out to the house.”

  Hazard frowned; the only light was the glow from the dash, and it uncovered only pieces of his face, leaving the rest buried in darkness. Then lightning cracked along the sky, flaring purple-white, and the following darkness was accompanied by thunder. Over the rumble, Hazard said, “What about Mrs. Ferrell’s property?”

  “What about it?”

  “Is it inside city limits?”

  “I don’t know. Never really thought about it. Anyway, the next Newton—I think his name was Roger—sold the house. That was back in the fifties. It traded hands a bunch of times until it sold for a fraction of its price a couple of years ago. This time, it went to a marketing group, and they’ve fixed it up pretty well. They use it for corporate retreats, training events, team-building exercises.”

  “Shooting guns is a team-building exercise? And will you take the wheel, already?”

  “Shooting guns did a hell of a lot for us, didn’t it?”

  Hazard just grunted. After another moment, he said, “How do you know all this?”

  “About Windsor?”

  “What the hell is Windsor?”

  “That’s the name of the house. My parents were pretty good friends with Roger’s kids.”

  “The Newtons?” Hazard frowned.

  “Newton Mortuary, where they’ve got the ME set up.”

  Hazard grunted, but the furrow between his eyes didn’t disappear.

  “And,” Somers said with a sigh, “our dear, beloved mayor, Sherman Newton. Roger’s oldest son. He and his family were over enough to tell plenty of stories about the place. Lots of ghost stories, you know. It’s one of those American-Victorian monstrosities, kind of something you’d imagine in a Lovecraft story.”

  The silence was so long that Hazard’s voice, when he spoke, sparked a small shock at the base of Somers’s spine. “You’ve read Lovecraft?”

  “Jesus Christ. I went to college, all right? Could you try to remember that?”

  All Somers got, though, was a grunt and then, “Take the wheel.”

  “Why? You’re doing a great job.”

  “Take the damn wheel.”

  “My hands are still a little chilly.”

  “If you don’t grab the wheel right now, I’m going to break every one of your fingers, and then you’ll be wishing they were just cold.”

  With a laugh, Somers grabbed Hazard’s hand. The flesh was slightly colder than his own, the fine black hairs on the back of the hand tickling Somers’s palm. He peeled Hazard’s fingers away from the wheel and held onto the other man’s hand, his thumb making small circles on the cool flesh, until Hazard, with a string of swears, jerked his hand free. Somers laughed again, taking hold of the wheel and guiding them down the bumpy road.

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “So we’re going to talk to whoever’s using the house.”

  “You’re a real asshole.”

  “And I’ll call up the marketing firm and let them know we’ve had some more problems.”

  Hazard was shaking out his hand, as though Somers’s touch had physically hurt him, and seemed ready to remind Somers, again, about his quality of being an asshole. Instead, he asked, “Someone’s there over Thanksgiving?”

  “Could be an executive’s retreat. Could be some marketing bigwig just brought his family out here.” Another roll of thunder filled the car, and Somers glanced up at the darkness. If it rained, Hazard might very well kill him. If it snowed—well, Hazard would figure out something even worse than murder. “We’ll make it fast, see if anyone was near Mrs. Ferrell’s house, remind them about keeping all the firearms inside the range, and jet back to town. You’ll get back fast enough to eat tacos or spaghetti or grilled cheese, whatever Nico made you.”

  “He’s not making grilled cheese, he’s making—” Hazard cut off.

  “Come on.”

  “Screw you.”

  “You aren’t going to tell me anything? The only things I know about you two are what I see firsthand in the apartment. And,” Somers added, a suggestive smirk growing on his face, “what I hear firsthand in the apartment.”

  It was
hard to tell in the darkness, but Somers was pretty sure that Hazard was blushing. Furiously.

  “Most guys talk about their girlfriends. They talk about their dates. They even talk about the ones that aren’t so serious.”

  Hazard didn’t reply. He had turned his gaze to the darkened glass, as though studying something in the bluish reflection generated by the dash’s light.

  “Nothing?”

  When no response came, Somers shrugged and let it drop. There would be another time. And another. And eventually, no matter how many tries it took, Somers would gain Hazard’s confidence about something that didn’t have to do with a dead body.

  Thunder boomed, rattling the windows in the car, but still no rain fell. The road began to even out, and Somers pressed lightly on the accelerator. As they hurried down a smoother stretch of gravel, the headlight cut cups of light out of the darkness. On both sides, the growth was thick; choked with shadows, the dense forest looked more like a jungle, alien and forbidding. This would not be a good place to get stranded, Somers thought, easing up slightly on the accelerator. Or, for that matter, to get lost.

  Getting lost, though, was not much of a possibility so long as he remained on the road. There was only one turn before the reached the main highway, and that turn led to Windsor. The gravel turned to brick—honest-to-God red brick, although crumbling at the edges and choked with weeds in places—and a moment later, the Impala’s tires clattered over a bridge.

  Hazard, who was glancing out the window, said, “Running high.”

  Somers spared the river a quick glance. The Petty Philadelph, which in a hot summer might not be more than a foot deep, now ran so full and so fast that it brushed the bottom of the bridge. The structure vibrated under the force of the water, causing the Impala to shiver as they drove across. It was a short stretch of water, but it was bad enough that Somers was already dreading the return crossing.

  The brick drive ran through fields of autumn grass on either side, high enough to block their sight, the long stalks hissing against the glass. After what felt like an eternity, the bricks split, heading in two directions. Somers kept to the right; he’d been here before, and he ought to have told Hazard that, but Hazard had been a dick about the Lovecraft reference. It was one thing to accept that Hazard was quite a bit smarter than Somers—it was another thing entirely, Somers thought, to rub it in every chance he got.

  And then the Impala shot past an invisible line, and the fields of autumn grass dropped away to be replaced by a trimmed, dormant lawn. Windsor sprang into view, floating in clouds of electric light: turrets and towers, a sharply pitched roof with a row of dormers, skinny windows of leaded glass, all of it rising, clutching at the moon with black fingers like a castle built on a distant cliff.

  “Holy shit,” Hazard muttered.

  “Holy shit,” Somers agreed.

  The brick drive curled to the front of the house, and Somers pulled to a stop. As the two men emerged from the Impala, thunder crackled again; Somers squinted up at the sky, blinded by Windsor’s lights. He couldn’t see a thing, but a moment later, a fat raindrop struck him right in the eye. Blinking it away, Somers took the lead, trotting up the steps towards Windsor’s double doors. If he didn’t hurry, if it started raining—well, he’d rather not die tonight.

  Up close, Windsor’s details were even more stunning, although shadows cast by the spotlights still hid much of the work. The leaded windows were ornately detailed with flowers—Hazard would probably know what they were—and geometric designs. On the door, more of the big flowers were carved into the wood—delicately detailed carvings that must have cost a fortune. Somers hesitated, surprised to hear the hiss of gas, and realized that the lamps at the door were genuine gaslights.

  “What are you waiting for?” Hazard said, pounding on the doors with one fist.

  Somers leaned forward, studying the doors with greater attention. Around the flowers, in a cramped margin, men and women paraded: some wearing dresses, some wearing what Somers took for turn-of-the-century suits. Then the gaslights flickered, and the shadows changed, and then Somers had lost track, and it seemed like the men weren’t where they’d been before, and he couldn’t seem to tell where the dresses ended and the suits began.

  Before he could study the carving further, the doors swung open. A stunning red-headed woman stood there, wearing a gown. Not a dress. Not a skirt. A gown, like something that had been meant to be worn at a ball or a gala or an opera box: lace and gold-thread embroidery and a square of stunning opal buttons that looked like rainbow fire in the gaslights.

  The woman screamed, hands going to her cheeks. “He’s dead, he’s dead. He’s in the house and we’ll all be killed.”

  Then, without further ado, she fainted.

  SOMERS CAUGHT THE WOMAN before she hit the ground. She smelled like lavender, and her soft, coppery hair spilled across his face as he wrapped his arms around her. She drooped into his grip, and Somers staggered under her weight.

  “Are you all right?” Somers asked the woman, trying to shift the woman so that he could reach his gun. He glanced up, relieved to see that Hazard already had out his .38.

  The woman didn’t answer, but Hazard cast her a quick look and said, “She’s fine. Drop her.”

  “I’m not going to—”

  “Get your gun.”

  As gently as he could, Somers eased the woman to the floor and reached for the Glock at the small of his back. The weight of the .40 caliber and its cool grip slapping into Somers’s palm sent him into familiar headspace: outside distractions dropped away, and he focused on the immediate inrush of his senses. The air, chilly and humid, plastered his trousers to his legs. The lavender perfume clung to his nostrils. From inside the house came a stronger smell, onions and seared meat, and then footsteps.

  At moments like this, the barriers between Somers and Hazard dropped away, and they moved like a single unit. Hazard brought his weapon high; Somers kept his low and scanned the surroundings, in case someone was behind or to the side. The footsteps grew louder, and Somers’s pulse reached his ear.

  “Police,” Hazard shouted. “Come out with your hands up.”

  “What the bloody—” A man in a tuxedo stepped into the large entrance hall and then froze when he saw Somers and Hazard.

  “Hands up,” Hazard barked.

  Somers scanned the grounds of Windsor one last time, but the spotlights and the heavy darkness hid everything past a dozen yards. As Somers turned back towards the house, though, another drop of rain spattered onto the Impala’s windshield. Shit.

  By the time Somers had turned his attention back to the hall, Hazard had ordered the tuxedoed man against the wall and was briskly patting him down.

  “What the hell is this?” the man in the tuxedo demanded. “Who are you? Meryl, get off the damn floor.”

  The redheaded woman’s eyes snapped open, and Somers found him disconcerted by the clarity in her expression. She sprang to her feet, and Somers took a step back, keeping the Glock low.

  “Benny,” she said, glancing first at the man in the tuxedo and then at Hazard and Somers. “What’s going—”

  “Miss,” Somers said, “step inside the house please.”

  She did, and Somers followed her. Hazard stepped away from the man in the tuxedo, threw Somers a glance, and then studied the woman. “He’s clean,” Hazard said, still focused on the redhead.

  “Of course I’m clean,” the man snapped, turning around and swiping at his sleeves, trying to remove the wrinkles there. “Now just who the fuck are you?”

  Somers took his time studying the two people before him. The man was short and balding. His cummerbund stretched over a potbelly. From behind a pair of trendy glasses, he squinted at the two detectives, but Somers guessed that the man, in spite of his appearance, was actually younger than either Hazard or Somers.

  The woman could have been the man’s complete opposite: tall, statuesque, her arms and legs elegantly proportioned and displayed by th
e gown with its gleaming opals. Her coppery hair accented pale skin, almost as pale as Hazard’s, and her eyes were a deep, crystalline blue. A flush had come into her cheeks, and she looked ready to spit fire.

  “My name is Detective Somerset. This is my partner, Detective Hazard.” Somers showed them his badge. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

  The man called Benny studied the badge before handing it off to Meryl in disgust. Meryl kept it a moment longer before returning it. Some of the heat had left her face, and her eyes were downturned as she said, “I’m such a goddamn fool.”

  “So,” Hazard said as he holstered his .38, “you’re not running from a murderer.”

  “Oh, she is,” Benny snapped, stalking deeper into the house. “We all are, and you’ve just gone and fucking ruined it.”

  Meryl stared after him as he disappeared down a hallway. She pulled her hair back, exposing a delicate collarbone, and grimaced. “He’s right. I’ve made a total mess of things.”

  “I’ve got to admit,” Somers said. “I’m a little confused. Mind telling us what’s going on?”

  “It’s a party. The whole thing, a party and a game. One of those murder-mystery dinners.”

  Hazard eyed her. “Pretty nice clothes for a murder-mystery dinner.”

  She plucked at the gown. “You know how hard it is to walk in one of these? Not to mention the goddamn stairs.” She gestured with her head, and for the first time, Somers fully took in his surroundings.

  Windsor’s entrance hall was grand. That was the only word to describe it. Its focal point was an enormous brass chandelier with electric lights that hung overhead, trembling as air gusted in from outdoors. Panels of light-colored wood covered the walls, and the panels had been waxed and polished until they shone in the quavering light. Along one wall, an enormous staircase rose to the second floor, lined with portraits of grim-faced men and equally grim-faced women. The final painting at the top featured a hound in a harlequin-pattern sweater, and even the dog was grim-faced. The place stank of lemon-wax cleaner and old, old money.