by Gregory Ashe
“You’re Miss Meryl . . .”
“Meryl Headlee. God, can you shut the door? I’m freezing.”
Somers complied, noticing that more droplets glistened on the Impala’s front. Shit, shit, shit. “Miss Headlee, we really need to talk to whoever’s in charge here. Do you work for the company that owns Windsor?”
“What? God, no. We’re—oh here, you might as well meet everybody. Come on to the dining room; we were just sitting down.”
She led them through the entry hall and down the same corridor that Benny had taken. Electric sconces glowed on the walls, illuminating side tables stacked with trinkets and carvings. All of the pieces looked crude, ancient, even primitive. The paintings on the wall reflected this: they reminded Somers of pictures he’d seen of cave drawings, ultra-simplified and vibrant and raw. Several doors opened off the hallway, and Somers noticed a bathroom, an empty kitchen, and what might have been a library.
The dining room matched the rest of the house in opulence: silver candlesticks provided the only light, and they marched down a wooden table that was probably as long as Somers’s whole apartment. Platters of food followed the candlesticks, interspersed with crystalware holding dark red wine. Seated at the table were three people: two women, and the man named Benny. One of the women wore a gown like Meryl’s; the other was dressed in a frumpy, pilled sweater. Neither of them looked older than thirty. Behind the table, another, slightly older woman stood against the wall. She wore an old-fashioned maid’s uniform, a frilly, flappy thing that barely reached the middle of her thighs.
As Somers stepped into the room, Benny was in the middle of explaining, “—the whole thing’s ruined.”
“It’s not ruined,” one of the women at the table said. Her dark hair curled almost halfway down her back, and her face was fox-like, triangular, with a pleasantly mocking expression. Her voice, when she spoke again, was surprisingly deep. “We’ll just reset. God knows you can do it, Benny. Just pretend it’s a relationship.”
“Aren’t you the perfect bitch?” the woman in the maid’s uniform said, her voice carrying a refined New York accent. “Leave it to Columbia—”
She went silent when she saw Somers and Hazard, and the other diners turned to see what had drawn her attention. It was Benny who broke the silence. “See? Totally ruined.”
“I’m sorry,” Meryl said, spreading her hands. “I thought it was part of the game.”
“For Christ’s sake, Meryl, don’t talk about it.” Benny threw himself into a chair, chin on his chest, and glowered at the empty plate in front of him.
Somers introduced himself and Hazard and then said, “I think we need a little more explanation.”
“Of course, Detective,” said the maid with the New York accent. “I’m Leza Weaver, so lovely to meet you. Don’t mind Benny, he’s having one of his fits. This is Ran,” she pointed at another man who had come into the room, dressed in rough work clothes, thin-chested, with horrible acne that was oily and gleaming in the candlelight, “Adaline,” this was the third woman who hadn’t yet spoken, dark-haired and plain and wearing a woolen sweater so lumpy and baggy that Somers half-believed she might have borrowed it from Mrs. Ferrell, “and this,” Leza paused, her mouth and eyes bright with vicious amusement that Somers didn’t quite understand, “is Columbia,” and she indicated the long-haired woman.
Out of the corner of his eye, Somers noticed the tight lines around his partner’s eyes and mouth. Whatever the joke, Hazard got it and didn’t like it.
“Can you tell us what’s going on here?”
“Was there a murder?” Hazard burst out.
“What?” Leza said. “Oh, God, Detective, you must think we’re insane. It’s just a game, see. Rather childish, but then, Thomas always has had his . . . predilections.”
“Now who’s the bitch?” Columbia said.
“Let’s get out of here,” Hazard muttered.
“Who’s Thomas?” Somers asked. “Where’s he?”
“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Leza stretched, a languid, catlike gesture that brought her breasts—rather large, attractive breasts—surging up and threatening to spill out of her uniform.
Meryl made a disgusted noise in her throat, and when Somers looked at her, she blushed. “Sorry. I thought Thomas was at the door. See, in the game, he’s the valet, but he hasn’t been playing. When you knocked, I thought it was Thomas, and so I ran to the door to tell him about the murder.”
“The murder that didn’t happen,” Hazard said flatly.
“That’s right. Only, it did happen. In the game, I mean. Oh, I’m muddling all of it.”
“She means,” Ran piped up, his voice as thin as his chest, “that in the game, Colonel Fitzgibbon, the eccentric millionaire who invited us to his country estate for the holiday, has been found shot at the range.”
“And who the hell,” Hazard said in that same deadly voice, “is Colonel Fitzgibbon?”
“One of those failed actors,” Leza said, flapping a hand towards the exterior wall, “the ones who run this whole two-bit theater piece. He’s not really dead, don’t you understand? He just lay there while we screamed and pretended to be horrified and I’m sure we did a terrible job of looking for clues because Columbia just had to wear her mink and it was dragging all over the ground, and you wouldn’t think a lady—” Leza laid scornful emphasis on the word before Columbia cut her off.
“You scheming, selfish cunt—”
“At least I have one, darling,” Leza said with a chilly smile.
“That’s enough,” Hazard barked.
Somers nudged his partner and, in a more moderate voice, said, “So everyone’s all right?”
“Everyone’s fine,” Meryl said, obviously doing her best to be cheerful in spite of the tension brewing at the table. “Would you like a drink? Something to eat?”
Somers’s stomach rumbled, but he said, “No, we just stopped by because your neighbor—”
“We have a neighbor?” Ran asked and then burst into a high-pitched, whinnying laugh.
“Mrs. Ferrell, she owns the land across the Petty—that’s the river on the edge of Windsor property—she had a window shot out today. The Windsor gun range is pretty close to her land, and it seems somebody wasn’t being very careful.”
Everyone at the table exchanged glances, and no one spoke.
“I take it,” Hazard said, “nobody’s going to volunteer and admit they took a gun out of the range?”
More silence.
“We’re going to ask you to be careful,” Somers said. “My partner and I don’t want to be called out again on Thanksgiving.”
There was a general murmur of assent, and Meryl stepped towards the door. As Somers followed, Leza’s voice stopped him.
“Are you sure you won’t stay, detectives? I could do absolutely wonderful, terrible things to you. Both of you, in fact.”
“Slut,” Columbia hissed.
“Goodnight,” Somers said.
“Shame,” Leza called after them.
As they reached the stairs in the entry hall, Somers paused. “If you were expecting Thomas, where is he?”
The mousy Adaline, in her frumpy brown sweater, emerged from the hallway behind them. In one hand she carried a plate loaded with food. In the other, a full wine glass. “He’s still upstairs,” she said with an apologetic smile. “I didn’t realize how late it was. He’s working and he’s forgotten about the game and about dinner too. I should have taken this up an hour ago, but he’s got to eat sometime, doesn’t he?”
Somers nodded, but he noticed Meryl’s wince as Adaline mounted the stairs. “What?” he asked.
“Wait for it,” Meryl said.
As Adaline rounded the top of the stairs, Somers strained to listen. He heard the click of a door open, and then Adaline’s voice in quiet, placating tones. A man’s voice cut through her words.
“Are you stupid? Are you a complete imbecile? Are you so braindead you should be locked up and shit
ting in a pan? Get the fuck out of my office, you stupid bitch.” Heavy footsteps echoed above them, and then the wineglass soared across the open expanse of the entry hall before shattering against the wall. Thick, red wine ran down the paneling in rivers. “If I’d wanted a meal, I would have fucking ordered a meal. Jesus Christ, Adaline, have a little goddamn sense for once in your life.”
From the upstairs hallway came the sound of a door slamming and then more heavy footsteps. A few moments later, Adaline appeared at the top of the stairs. She seemed oblivious to Somers and the rest at the bottom; mashed potatoes smeared the front of her sweater, and a few drops of gravy clung to her cheek and chin. For a moment, she stood there, visibly shaking. Then her eyes locked onto Somers, and she burst into tears and ran down the hallway.
“Great guy,” Somers said.
“Let’s go,” Hazard muttered, and on the heel of his words came another enormous crack of thunder.
“Try having him as your boss,” Meryl said. Her cheeks held the same angry flush Somers had noticed earlier, and her gaze was fixed on the upper hallway where Adaline had disappeared. “He wasn’t always such a bully, but on days like this, I just want to go up there and have it out with him. Nobody should be talked to like that.” Then she shook herself and turned back to the detectives. “I’m sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry you had to come out here in this awful weather. We only had the one scene at the range, so nobody should be back there for the rest of the game. There won’t be any more disturbances.”
“How much longer do you have?”
“Oh, it’s supposed to go until Sunday. There are all sorts of twists and turns, I guess. We get instructions every morning, and there are new clues. It really should be a ton of fun, especially in a creepy old house like this, but—well,” Meryl stopped and shrugged. “Make the best of it, like my mom always says.”
“Good luck,” Somers said. “And have a happy Thanksgiving.”
When she shut the door behind them, the cold struck Somers hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. He squinted out at Windsor’s grounds again, and again he saw only darkness. Something hadn’t felt right in the house, but that made sense: aside from Meryl, everyone in there seemed like the kind of person Somers would have happily abandoned on a sinking steamer. It was a relief to escape, even if it was into the bitter cold.
“What do you think?” Somers said.
“About what?”
“Those people. The house. All of it.”
“I think I’m cold and I’d like to make sure my boyfriend doesn’t miss his flight.”
“It didn’t feel off to you? There wasn’t a weird vibe?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to invite any of them over for dinner if that’s what you mean. Why? You want to stay and check them out? Because if you do, you’re—”
“No, nothing. I’m probably just imagining it.”
Hazard breathed out a white cloud and said, “Then let’s go. We’d better make up some time on the road. If Nico misses his flight—”
The clouds opened, and rain poured down.
“Shit,” Somers said.
RAIN SWEPT DOWN from the sky in huge sheets, drops drumming against wood and metal and glass until Hazard could barely hear himself think. As he sprinted towards the Impala, with Somers at his side, rain stung his face. By the time they reached the car, only fifteen feet from the door, both men were soaked. Hazard could feel himself dripping as he sank into the passenger seat.
Hazard told himself it wasn’t Somers’s fault. Somers couldn’t control the weather. Somers couldn’t have known that the phone call would be about a shooting or that the visit to Mrs. Ferrell would require them to stop at Windsor. Somers couldn’t have done anything different, really. Except, of course, keep his goddamn mouth shut instead of volunteering them for holiday work.
As the Impala revved to life and the heaters cranked out humid warmth, rain glazed the windshield so thickly that Hazard could barely see beyond the hood. Somers, squinting and leaning over the steering wheel, looked like he was having the same problem. The Impala crawled forward, thumping once over the edge of the brick pavement before Somers adjusted their course.
And still the rain kept coming. It had been like this for a week. It felt like it had been an eternity. Rain, and then rain, and then more rain: so much rain that Hazard was surprised—and disappointed—that Wahredua hadn’t slid into the Grand Rivere. A slapping noise, too wet and brittle to be called drumming, filled the car as the rain hit the windshield, and the Impala’s heater circulated the smell of wet wool so that it was all Hazard could taste.
The Impala jerked to a halt so suddenly that Hazard rocked forward, his head narrowly missing the windshield. “What the hell—” Then Hazard saw what had caused Somers to stop: the Petty Philadelph had overrun its banks. The water surged up into the overgrown fields, trampling the tall grass before swirling around the Impala’s tires. Ahead of the car, water skated across the top of the bridge.
“How fast do you think it’s moving?” Somers shouted over the drumming rain.
“Too fast.”
“It’s just skimming the top of the bridge. We can still make it.”
“Like hell.”
Somers set his face in determination. “We’re getting you to Nico’s house. You’ll never forgive me if you don’t have a chance at going away sex.”
“You’re a complete and total idiot.” But Hazard didn’t object as Somers eased the car forward. Somers was right: the water did look like it was barely rushing over the top of the bridge. And the bridge wasn’t very long. They’d only have to drive carefully for ten or fifteen yards, and then they’d reach dry—well, relatively—land on the other side and be safely on their way back to Wahredua.
As soon as the Impala’s tires touched the bridge, though, metal shrieked and groaned. Water shoved the Impala sideways, and the nose of the car hammered into the bridge’s support. Over the thrum of the rain, the shrill noise of twisting metal grew stronger, and a tremor ran through the bridge and up into the Impala.
“Get out,” Hazard said, fumbling with his seat belt.
Somers didn’t speak; his face had lost some color, but his features were still set in a kind of extreme focus. With two quick movements, he undid his seatbelt and then Hazard’s. Then he pulled the latch, and the door swung open, forced by the rising water.
“This way,” Somers said, grabbing Hazard’s jacket and tugging him across the center console. “The water’s blocking your door.”
Hazard crawled into the driver’s seat, ignoring the searing stab of pain in his shoulder, and splashed out into the water that was already hitting him mid-calf. He staggered under the rushing speed of the water, but Somers still had hold of his jacket, and he used it to steady the larger man. Supporting each other against the growing force of the flood, the two detectives stumbled towards higher ground.
The water was still ankle-deep when the bridge gave a last, pained squeal and tore free. The wood-and-steel frame whipped around once in the Petty Philadelph’s muddy waters, and then it crashed against the bank, bounced, crashed again, and drifted out of reach of the Impala’s headlights. The Impala, its front tires no longer supported by the bridge, sagged forward into the river. Inch by inch, the car slid away.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Somers said, wiping rain from his eyes as he stared at the sinking Impala. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Icy rain continued to pelt the men; Hazard shivered, and he was suddenly aware of the river water and the rain leaching heat from him. Somers still had hold of Hazard’s jacket, and Hazard pried him loose.
“Come on,” Hazard said. “Before we freeze to death.”
By the time they reached the house, Hazard’s shivering had become uncontrollable, and his teeth chattered so violently he was afraid of biting his tongue in two. Somers, who was smaller and carried substantially less body fat, looked blue. Hazard half-carried his partner up the steps to Windsor, propped Somers a
gainst the door, and started hammering on the wood.
What felt like an eternity passed before the door swung open, and Meryl, with her red hair shining like a welcome fire, stared at them. “What in the—”
Hazard pushed past her, dragging Somers into the entry hall. “Fireplace,” Hazard managed between bouts of chattering. “T-t-towels.”
“The dining room,” Meryl said. “You know the way. I’ll grab towels and blankets.”
Without waiting for an answer, she sprinted up the stairs, moving faster than Hazard expected a woman in a gown to move. Hazard, still carrying much of Somers’s weight, moved into the dining room. He was pleased to see that the other guests had abandoned the room, and even more pleased to see that platters of turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes with congealed butter still sat on the table. A fire flickered in the chimney, and Hazard and Somers dragged chairs next to the flames. With the poker, Hazard stirred the logs and added more fuel. Heat poured over them, and, still shivering, Hazard sank back into the chair.
“Y-y-y-you’re going to s-s-set yourself on fire,” Somers managed.
Hazard blinked at the other man, too tired to respond, and settled lower towards the flames.
Somers tried to say something else, but he couldn’t get it out. Instead, he settled for leaning forward and swatting Hazard on the leg. Hard. The blow stung, and Hazard pulled his legs back. It was only then that he noticed the smoke curling up from his trousers. With a grudging nod, Hazard pulled his seat back from the flames—but only a little.
“What happened?” Meryl, clutching towels and blankets to her chest, watched them from the doorway.
“Bridge is out,” Hazard managed to say. The heat from the fire soaked into his chilled skin, and as numbness gave way, tingling prickles took its place. He shrugged out of his jacket, worked stiff fingers into the pocket, and found his phone.
“Who do I call?”
“S-s-swinney.”
Hazard dialed, and a familiar voice answered on the second ring. “Swinney.”
Elizabeth Swinney and her partner, Albert Lender, were the other two detectives on Wahredua’s police force. Both of them seemed decent types, but Swinney had struck a note of friendship with Hazard. More importantly, between Swinney and Lender, they knew Wahredua and the surrounding county better than almost anyone—they specialized in drug-related crime, which took them all over the area.