Some Enchanted Murder

by Linda S. Reilly

  Lillian.

  “I’m going to call Lillian this morning,” I said, removing the buns from the microwave. “I want to be sure she’s okay.”

  “Good idea. I didn’t have my head on straight when we left the mansion yesterday, but Lillian did look scared, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. The question is why.”

  “Do you think she saw the killer?”

  The microwave beeped. I extracted the warm cinnamon buns and set them on a trivet in front of my aunt. “She saw something, Aunt Tress. I feel sure of it. I just wish I knew what it was.” I snapped my fingers. “What about Darby?”

  “The guy who gave me his card? What about him?”

  “I don’t know. He seemed to pop in and out of sight like he was performing a disappearing act. You didn’t notice him hanging around the study where Lou was, did you?”

  “Definitely not. I’d have remembered that shock of white hair.”

  I still wasn’t ready to cross him off my list of potential suspects. He’d been far too intrigued by those antique daggers for my liking.

  My aunt was reaching for a bun when the phone rang. I picked up the receiver and chatted with Celeste for a few minutes, then hung up.

  “Celeste and Blake are still going to have their open house this afternoon. She spent all week preparing the food and doesn’t want it to go to waste.”

  “I guess I can’t blame her. I’m not much in the mood for it, though.”

  “I’m sure Celeste would understand if you didn’t go. I don’t mind stopping by there for a little while by myself.”

  Aunt Tressa licked sticky cinnamon goop off her thumb. “Nah, I’ll go with you. Maybe between the two of us we can do a little spying. Do you think some of the people who were at the estate sale might be at the open house?”

  “Maybe, if they’re friends of Blake and Celeste.”

  She smacked her lips. “Let’s do it.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  After she left the bank, I hurried back to my office. I pondered what to do next. My schedule has been extremely busy. With the war over, the town is experiencing a building boom. As president in charge of mortgage lending, I attend board meetings almost daily. Every day, new loan applications pour onto my desk. Small tract houses are becoming the rage. Tiny Hazleton is growing …

  Lillian’s cell phone rang six times before it finally went to voice mail. She had one of those services that catered to seniors and charged blessedly low rates. I left another message, begging her to call to let me know she was all right.

  I’d been calling her since ten in the morning. It was now ten past two. “I’m getting a little worried,” I confided to Aunt Tressa. Aunt Tressa shrugged on her coat. “Maybe she went some where with her knitting club friends.” “It’s possible.” But why wouldn’t she have her cell phone with her? Isn’t that the point of having one? “Can you drive again, Apple? I don’t want you-know-who to have another reason to hound me.” “Sure. But I’ll be glad when you get that sticker.” Celeste and Blake lived in Hazleton’s one and only condo development. Known as Cardinal Pond, it consisted of three rows of brick townhouses that formed a U-shape around a man-made pond. The parking lot had been thoroughly plowed and sanded. I located the area marked Visitor Parking and pulled into one of the spaces.

  The twin aromas of pine and peppermint swirled around us as we stepped into Blake and Celeste’s townhouse. Celeste looked grim and subdued as she took our coats. “Apple, Tressa, I’m so glad you could make it.” Today she wore a simple black cashmere dress, adorned with only a jeweled poinsettia pin. Her demeanor seemed a bit more restrained than it had been a day ago. Even her stylish blond hair looked paler and less vibrant than usual.

  From somewhere behind me, the opening notes of The Godfather theme, hummed in an off-key twang, drifted into my ears. I whirled around just in time for Blake Dwardene to plant a noisy kiss on my cheek.

  “Apollonia Nicole Mariani, in the adorable flesh.” Blake smiled as he encased me in a squishy hug.

  Okay, it was true. My dad—whose all-time favorite movie was The Godfather—named me after the smoldering Sicilian beauty who married Al Pacino in the film.

  “Stop teasing her,” Celeste said, swatting Blake lightly on the arm. “Besides, Apollonia is a beautiful name.”

  At thirty-six, two years my senior, Blake still had the flaxen, surfer-dude locks and long-lashed green eyes that had made him a high school heartthrob. Together, he and Celeste made a stunning—and truly golden—couple.

  Today, though, his face appeared drawn, his eyes weary. He looked as if he either hadn’t slept at all, or had slept for hours without getting an ounce of rest. “I’m glad you both came,” he said. “Tressa, I’m very sorry about Lou. I never had the chance to tell you yesterday.”

  “Thanks. He was … a good friend.”

  “Have you heard anything from the police?” I asked Blake. “Do they have any idea who did it?”

  Celeste nestled closer to Blake. “No,” she said. “Chief Fenton and the crime scene people are going back there today. We’re hoping they’ll finish up so we can move the rest of the stuff out of there tomorrow morning. We’d already scheduled the movers.”

  “That soon?” I said, surprised.

  “I’ve got to be in New York on Wednesday,” Blake said. “I don’t want to dump all the last-minute details on Celeste.”

  “How about some of my homemade eggnog?” Celeste offered, injecting a cheery note into her voice. “It has only a touch of rum, so you won’t have any problem driving. Unless you drink a gallon, of course.” She winked at Aunt Tressa, then escorted us into the large living room, where jazzy holiday music played softly in the background. On the mantel, above the fake fireplace, a row of white candles winked and glimmered. Several people stood around, clutching cups and plastic plates and chatting in low tones. Their faces were listless, not at all festive. We followed Celeste over to a long sideboard, where platters of hors d’oeuvres rested on both sides of a crystal punch bowl filled with eggnog.

  “The eggnog’s good,” I told Celeste after taking a sip.

  “Ditto that,” Aunt Tressa said.

  Celeste beamed. “Help yourselves to hors d’oeuvres. I made all of the breads and crackers myself with organic flour and grains. And by the way,” she whispered conspiratorially, “if you want something with a little more bite, there’s a bar in the dining room.” With that, she floated away to greet another guest.

  Aunt Tressa’s eagle-eyed gaze soared over the food-laden trays and landed on a thick cracker topped with a swirly brown mixture. She snatched one. “What do you think this is?”

  I took one and tasted it. The flavor was unusual, but I couldn’t place it. “I don’t know, but it’s good. Try it.”

  My aunt bit off a half and chomped it into oblivion. “Strangetasting. Not bad, though.”

  At that moment, Blake was scurrying past us on his way to the kitchen. I nabbed him and asked him what was on the cracker.

  “That’s game pâté, imported straight from England.”

  My aunt’s face crumpled like a Ferris wheel whose bolts had given way all at once. She quickly gulped back three mouthfuls of eggnog.

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yeah, Celeste loves the stuff, but it’s pricey as all get-out.”

  “It’s very tasty,” I added, grateful that Blake was already scooting away.

  Aunt Tressa’s face was the color of organic flour. She wiped her lips with a red paper napkin. “Did I,” she said shakily, “just eat game pâté? Little-animals-that-walk-in-the-woods pâté?”

  I winced. “Kind of. You don’t have to eat the rest of it.”

  She looked around surreptitiously. “What am I going to do with it? I don’t suppose they have a dog.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “How about a tarantula?”

  “Here, put it on my plate.”

  She obliged, and I covered it discreetly with my napkin. Sometimes I wondered who go
t custody of whom all those years ago. “All right, now let’s mingle,” I said. “Keep your ears open for any scuttlebutt about … you know what.”

  “That’s right, we came to spy.” She glanced around. “You’d think we’d know some of these people, wouldn’t you? I don’t recognize a soul.”

  “Maybe they’re colleagues of Blake’s.”

  Blake is a manufacturer’s rep for several high-end vitamin companies. Although he and Celeste both attended Hazleton High School in the early nineties, they’d never spoken a word to each other until about two years ago, when Blake went into The Grain Factor to keep an appointment with the regional marketing manager, who turned out to be Celeste. They clicked instantly and began seeing one another. As my aunt is fond of saying, chalk another one up for Cupid.

  “Even Celeste’s mother isn’t here,” Aunt Tressa said. “Doesn’t she live in Hazleton?”

  I’d wondered about that myself. “As far as I know she does. She’s either remarried or living with a boyfriend. I’m not sure which.”

  Aunt Tressa and I split up and I puttered around the room, smiling politely at everyone and wondering who the guests were. As far as I could recall, none of the people who’d attended the estate sale were here. Sam was noticeably absent. I had this weird sensation that the guests were all ringers, replacements for the ones who’d originally been invited.

  Starting to grow bored, I meandered back to the punch bowl for more eggnog. En route, I passed a cluster of framed photos that sat on a low chrome-and-glass table. I bent down to take a gander at them. In the center of the table, a silver, heart-shaped frame bore a faded color snapshot of a sixty-something woman sitting on a flowered sofa, her arm wrapped possessively around a gawky, preteen girl—Celeste. In contrast to Celeste’s sad smile, the woman wore a vivacious grin, belying the world-weary glaze in her careworn blue eyes.

  Another photo caught my eye—this one of Blake and an older man standing in front of a log cabin. I couldn’t help smiling at the image of a much younger Blake, his blond hair curling around his neckline, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

  “Ghastly photo, isn’t it?”

  I turned to find Blake hovering behind me with a glass of something crimson in his hand.

  I laughed. “Are you kidding? You look exactly like you did in high school. Macho man with an attitude. Machotude.”

  “Come on. Was I that bad?”

  “Worse, actually. Always kissing the girls and making them cry.” I pointed at the photo. “That’s your dad, isn’t it?”

  “Yep.” Blake grinned. “That’s us at his fishing cabin in Weare.”

  I remembered Albert Dwardene from Blake’s high school graduation party. Always quite the character, he’d whisked off the dress shirt he’d been wearing that day and donned one of his wife’s bikini tops. He paraded around like that for a good half hour before Blake’s mom dragged him inside by the ear and ordered him to change.

  My own dad didn’t quite make it to my high school graduation. A big convention in Vegas that weekend prevented him from flying east for the event.

  It was a convenient excuse, anyway.

  “Do you still have the cabin?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” Celeste squeezed in between us and slid her arm through Blake’s. “I’ve been begging him to sell that old place, but Blake says it’s his haven.”

  He tapped her lightly on the nose. “It is my haven. Some day, when you’re tired of the rat race in Manhattan, you’ll appreciate having a love nest on the lake we can escape to.”

  “Love nest! It doesn’t even have a kitchen, just one of those horrid wood stoves.” Celeste shuddered. “Not to mention that I saw a spider there last summer the size of a tractor.”

  “Yikes, don’t tell my aunt,” I said.

  “Tell your aunt what?” Aunt Tressa ambled into the mix holding a plate covered with cheese chunks, rolled ham slices, and black olives.

  “Oh, I was just telling Apple—”

  The doorbell rang three times in quick succession.

  “Sounds like an anxious latecomer.” Blake excused himself and went to answer the door. Seconds later, a loud voice erupted.

  “But your uncle gave me that car,” the voice boomed. “Not only does it belong to me, but I’ve already sunk about eight hundred bucks into it! Why should I pay anything for it?”

  I recognized the voice right away—Josh Baker’s.

  “First of all, calm down.” Blake’s tone was one of controlled fury.

  After that, he must have dragged Josh into another room, because somewhere a door closed. Hard.

  The guests had all turned and were gawking in our direction. Celeste’s face flushed pink. “It’s all right everyone,” she called to the group. “He’s just a disgruntled tenant of Blake’s.” She excused herself and fled toward the kitchen.

  Aunt Tressa offered me an hors d’oeuvre from her plate. “Well, flippity doodah, that was embarrassing.”

  “I feel bad for Celeste,” I said, taking a small square of cheddar. “She looked mortified.”

  “What do you suppose Josh was so riled up about?”

  “I don’t know, but it was obviously something about a car.”

  Josh had always been somewhat of a sulky kid, and I’d heard his temper explode on more than one occasion when things didn’t go his way. And, if I remembered correctly, he’d always been a car aficionado.

  But none of that explained his bursting into a private residence and verbally attacking Blake.

  The background music grew suddenly louder, the bass a tad bolder. Celeste, I was sure, had adjusted the volume on the CD player to mask any unpleasant voices that might drift into the areas where the guests were still mingling.

  “Maybe we should think about leaving,” Aunt Tressa said.

  “I’m all for that. When Blake is free, I’ll ask him to fetch our coats.”

  Celeste returned to the living room bearing a large tray. Wearing her best hostess face, she ambled among the guests, offering up tiny round carrot cakes and chocolate truffles. Aunt Tressa eyed the tray hungrily, but my appetite was gone.

  “Oh, Apple, at least try something,” Celeste pleaded. “I made the carrot cake with organic carrots and pure Tahitian vanilla. And Tressa, the filling inside these truffles is my own concoction, made from the most delectable cocoa—grown in Trinidad—that you’ve ever tasted.”

  Aunt Tressa wouldn’t have cared if the cocoa had been grown in the Bronx. She snagged a truffle and bit off a large half.

  I removed a miniature carrot cake from the tray and took a bite. “Mmm, this is scrumptious.” And it was. It was one of the best cakes I’d ever tasted.

  “So’s the truffle,” Aunt Tressa said, dabbing at her lips with a holiday napkin.

  “Thanks. Once we’re settled in New York I’m going to create a line of desserts to go with my—”

  “—take it to small claims court! Don’t think you’re getting away with this.” It was Josh again, this time stomping toward the front door, his face flushed with fury. When I fell into his line of vision, he momentarily froze.

  “Do whatever you want,” Blake said, one fist clenched at his side.

  Josh hesitated, but only for a moment. His dark gaze seared through me before he stormed out and slammed the door.

  “Excuse me,” Celeste said quietly. She set the dessert tray on a side table and hurried over to Blake, but he was already stalking toward the kitchen. Celeste followed him.

  “So much for our coats,” Aunt Tressa said.

  Several of the guests began making noises about leaving. The incident with Josh had clearly made everyone uncomfortable.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “It looks like other people are getting ready to go, too.”

  By the time we’d gotten our coats and thanked Blake and Celeste for their hospitality, it was dark outside. A chill wind nipped at our faces as we made a brisk dash for my car. As soon as I cranked the engine, I flipped the heat on high and dug my cell p
hone out of my purse. I tried Lillian’s cell number again. After four rings, I snapped the phone shut.

  A bad feeling was beginning to gnaw at me.

  “She’s still not home,” I told my aunt.

  “Then let’s go over there. For all we know, she could have fallen and broken something and can’t get to her phone.”

  Oh, Lord. That hadn’t even occurred to me.

  I turned sharply out of the parking lot and headed for Lillian’s. It was four fifty-nine when I pulled up in front of her trailer. In each of the small windows, a dim glow filtered through the lowered shades.

  “Good, there’s a light on,” Aunt Tressa said. “She must be home.”

  But any relief we felt was short-lived.

  I leaped up Lillian’s front steps and was tapping the metal door with my knuckles when I realized something—the door was already open, about a quarter of an inch.

  “Lillian?” I called through the crack.

  No answer.

  I felt Aunt Tressa’s hand on my back, and we both rushed inside.

  The light came from the small lamp that rested on an end table next to the sofa. No other lights were on. I felt a chill zip down my spine.

  “It feels like Antarctica in here,” my aunt said with a shiver.

  “Lillian?” I could hear the rising hysteria in my voice.

  Aunt Tressa barged across the small living room, and I followed on rubbery legs. We paused for a moment, looking all around.

  The door to Lillian’s bedroom was open, as was the bathroom door. My heart nearly stopped beating when I peeked into her bedroom.

  Lillian’s bed was unmade.

  And it looked as if she’d left it in a hurry.

  A thin blanket and a knitted, yellow-and-white afghan were tangled around the top sheet. Had Lillian been thrashing in her sleep? Or had someone rousted her out of bed in the dead of night?

  A painted white bureau in the corner of the room was adorned with a vinyl jewelry box, a framed black-and-white photo of a white cat, and an old-fashioned hand mirror and hairbrush. Nothing appeared to be disturbed there, at least as far as I could see.