MURDER at CRAWFORD HOUSE (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 3)

by Leslie Leigh

  MURDER at CRAWFORD HOUSE

  Allie Griffin Mysteries, Book 3

  L E S L I E L E I G H

  Copyright © 2015

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  For questions and comments about this book, please contact us at Info@RascalHearts.com

  Table of Contents

  Part I

  PART II

  PART III

  Part I

  1.

  "Thank God!"

  "What is it?" said Allie Griffin.

  Del Collins threw her head back on the car's headrest. "My battery's dead. I can finally close my eyes and not think about losing my lunch."

  The approach to Crawford House was a winding one. They'd gotten as far as the covered bridge and then it was off on a snaking trail – paved, thank goodness – into the middle of nowhere.

  Both women were used to this sort of thing. Vermonters get used to miles of nowhere.

  Del, Allie's best friend, had been navigating via iPhone and was becoming increasingly car sick in the process.

  "I think I got it from here."

  Off to the west, the Green Mountains loomed like snow-capped shoulders of titans rising to have a peek over the horizon. And all around them, the trees burned wildly with all the colors of October.

  "Incredible," said Allie. "It's absolutely incredible. You have to open your eyes for this."

  Del threw an arm across her forehead. "I'll pass, thank you."

  "You don’t know what you’re missing."

  "Trees. I've seen them."

  "Not like this. Can you imagine this being your drive home every day?"

  "If every day I drove home feeling like my stomach was on the spin cycle, yes I can imagine. And it would suck big time."

  "Just relax. I'm pretty sure we're almost there."

  With Del relaxing in the passenger's seat, and the living postcard around her, Allie found herself in the mood for reflection. Everything felt right. This mini-vacation away from Verdenier – even though it was only five miles outside of town – was exactly what she needed. It's too bad she'd have to spend it with these people.

  Not for nothing, but a weekend with people she hadn't seen since college wasn't exactly number one on her bucket list, but her mood now was able to overcome any social anxiety she might have...that is, were it not for the fact that Rachel Forrester was going to be there.

  Of course she'd seen Rachel around town. Out of the six of them, Rachel was the only one besides Allie and Del who never left Verdenier. She was hoping for a bit of camaraderie at least—something in common that they could commiserate on – like the social awkwardness of having stayed glued to the exact same spot for twenty years when amongst those who've seen much of the world, and not through books alone.

  And then there was the fact that Allie and Rachel had been on very cold terms since the Tori Cardinal affair, when Allie had been too forthright in suspecting her friend of murder.

  A pleasantry here and there since had served to still the waters between them, however, and she was hoping that the whole thing had more or less blown over by now. If not, Allie thought, at least she had it covered: she'd been rehearsing a sincere apology for days now.

  "Here we are. Ho-lee..." She smacked her friend on the knee."Delaney Collins, you have to see this."

  The woods had suddenly cleared and the pavement ended, and there they were on a dirt path through at least two acres of manicured lawn. And up ahead, like a lonely child crouched all by himself, sat Crawford House.

  To say the place was stately would be to remove the rustic, weather-beaten aspects of it. To say it was magnificent would be too insincere, and would imply royalty, again denying the house its roots. No, though beautiful, the house was imposing.

  As they drove closer, the optical illusion played by spatial distance fell away, and the place grew to immense proportions before their very eyes.

  The style was plainly Victorian, a Queen Anne, asymmetrical, as the style often dictates, a ghastly gray beast splattered with olive green gingerbread along every bargeboard beneath the gables and dormers. Web-like latticework trimmed the portico entrance, which widened into a porch that wrapped around the visible part of the house. A massive, hexagonal turret stood like a sentry on one side, complete with a dizzying widow's walk observation deck at its apex, while the rest of the house receded away from it; save for the middle part of the building, where the quadruple-sloped, flat-topped roof capped off the house's highest point as if it had been stretched and pulled up there by some colossal fingertips.

  "This place is haunted for sure," said Del.

  "Oh, cut it out. It is not."

  As they pulled up, a hand-drawn sign directed them to drive around to the eastern side of the house, where a roofed car park awaited. When they pulled up, they noticed several cars of varying models parked there.

  "Well, Rachel Forrester is here," said Allie, shutting off the engine. "That's her car."

  "Easy, girl. We'll get through this together."

  "I think we're the last to show up."

  "You may be right," said Del."Are you ready?"

  "I guess so. Out of the stewpot and into the fire."

  They exited the car and began the long walk around to the grand entrance.

  Del teased at her hair. "How do I look, by the way?"

  "You look fabulous, I was going to say. You got a new hair dryer I see?"

  Del stopped walking. "What?"

  "I said you got a new—"

  "No, I heard that. I want to know how you knew that. I didn’t tell you that."

  Allie shrugged, and then thought about it. "I guess I just put two and two together. When you got in the car, the first thing I noticed was that your hair had a lot more bounce to it than usual. And it does. It looks beautiful."

  "Thank you. Go on."

  "Well, I guess next I noticed the smell of Pantene. That's your usual smell. So it's obvious you didn’t change your shampoo. And it's not like you've been out of hot water all this time, because I know you; you would have complained about it non-stop."

  "True that."

  "The weather's the same today as it was yesterday, and I saw you yesterday, so it's not the weather that made your hair look any better. So, like I said, I put two and two together and took a guess. I guess I guessed correctly."

  "You're not human."

  "Come on. We're already late."

  2.

  The deed to the Crawford House had passed through several hands before winding up in the lap of a man who was rapidly becoming one of the country's major players in the world of software applications. Larry Gordon's corporate reputation was growing steadily along with his business, and neither was showing any signs of slowing.

  Still, Larry Gordon had managed to avoid media attention. In the age of the celebrity entrepreneur, this was indeed a commendable feat. Whether the media just wasn't enamored by computer professionals as they had been with innovators like Bill Gates or Steve Jobs, or Larry Gordon himself just wasn't tabloid material was anyone's guess. But the name Larry Gordon had been and would continue to be, as far as anyone could tell, synonymous with low profile.

  Choosing locations like Crawford House helped a little. There were plenty of such spots in the world: gems obscured by their ability to blend in with their surroundings. Cra
wford House did seem to be one with the land, like some unnatural fungus sprouting out of it. Allie looked at her surroundings, nearly overwhelmed by the complete isolation of the place.

  "Allie Griffin! You look exactly as I remember you!"

  Larry Gordon was a jovial sort. A permanent smile affixed to his face, he received the last two of his guests with huge hugs and a feverish, puppy dog energy. He, like all the others, was in his early forties. His face and hair and his trim body and fine casual clothes displayed all the signs of the indulgent self-preservation in which the wealthy tend to engage when there's nothing else to do with the money.

  The main reception hall was done in baby blue. Off to the left was an ornate fireplace with a lively fire burning steadily within. To their immediate right was the entrance to the dining room, and to the left of that, a walnut staircase snaking upward. Allie took a peek into the dining room as they passed and caught a glimpse of exquisite furnishings she'd only seen in magazines.

  "Come in, please, the guests are in the drawing room."

  "Oh? The drawing room?" said Del in a haughty British accent.

  Gordon threw a smile over his shoulder and said, "We're trying to preserve the spirit of this old house. Names do help."

  Taking a right and through a short hallway, they entered a grand room, a giant square of at least eighteen feet on each side, with a ceiling that went that high as well. The furniture here was definitely more modern than a house such as this would dictate, though not too modern as to defy style altogether. Comfy L-shaped couches and two large comfy chairs hugged a huge square coffee table, and all sat atop a silky burgundy-colored rug.

  The rest of the guests rose to meet them. A chorus of cheerful hellos echoed throughout the room. Each had a drink of some sort in his or her hand, some pausing to place tumblers on coasters before rising, others preferring to hold onto wine glasses in the non-dominant hand while the dominant was offered for greeting.

  The first to come forth was Jürgen Appelhof. Allie had never forgotten Jürgen. A Dutch exchange student, he'd returned to Europe shortly after graduation and that was the last she'd heard of him. Allie found she couldn’t remember how he used to look. The man before her now with the short crop of blond hair and the wide eyes and thin mustache was only vaguely familiar. However, if there was one thing about Jürgen that would never fade from memory, it was his voice. It was a blaring, voice, a piccolo trumpet crossed with a French horn, and a little Pee Wee Herman thrown in. His thick accent seemed to highlight the specific oddities of the sound. That same, unmistakable voice was still there, as Allie realized when Jürgen Appelhof grabbed both her arms and held them while exclaimed, "Allison, look at you! So beautiful. I always remember you long, beautiful hair, like Xena!"

  "Thank you, Jürgen. You look...exactly the same."

  "You're lying!" he growled with a toothy grin.

  "You got me."

  "Yes, I got you," he shouted, embracing her in a bear hug that made her eyes bulge.

  "Ok, Jürgen," she rasped, slapping him on the back. "Allie needs to breathe now."

  "Ah. Wonderful hugs. Like candy!"

  Next was Rachel Forrester. She was one of those who'd opted to hold on to her wine glass. She stood taking sips of the ruby red vintage while waiting to greet Allie and Del. When it came time, once Jürgen had let go of Allie's arms and threw up his own saying, "I give up! She's too beautiful for me! I'm not in her league!" Rachel offered a stiff arm.

  "Hello Allie," she said, looking her in the eye, a warm smile on her face.

  If that smile's a fake, it's a good fake, thought Allie.

  "Good to see you again, Rachel."

  Rachel Forrester's eyes were dark and her face held an olive hue that betrayed a hint of Greek somewhere in her Russian-Polish roots. She had red lips that were full and she smiled without showing teeth.

  Next was Bertie Sommersville, owner and proprietor of Old Lace Antiques in Shelburne. Bertie was another who held onto his glass tightly as he shook Allie's hand. He wore a tweed jacket over a silk shirt with an ascot around his neck.

  Bertie was just the type to wear an ascot. In college he was an eccentric, a business major with an affinity for the old and the obsolete that bordered on the obsessive. He typed all his papers on a typewriter when others used word processors and, later, computers. He never carried a cell phone. He never used calculators when he could scratch out figures with pencil and paper. His clothes seemed scrounged from the closets of bygone folks, as if he'd taken a time machine on some great pillage of the past, raiding closets and dressers with wild abandon. The occupation of "dealer in antiques" suited Bertie; it was the only job he could have without being driven insane by modernity. Even his physical appearance – thinning hair, and a meek, fat, diamond-shaped face offset by thin lips and horn-rimmed spectacles – seemed to suggest that he may have been transplanted here from some alternative universe where it was always 1940.

  However, if there was one thing that really distinguished Bertie from everyone else, it was his neatness. His clothes, though scrounged, were impeccable and wrinkle-free. His hair was squeaky clean. His nails were perfect. He smelled freshly washed and perfumed and he handled his drink carefully and daubed the corners of his mouth daintily with a napkin after every sip. Bertie Sommersville was the picture of fastidious personal hygiene.

  And then there was Molly Townsend, aka Molly Gordon, Larry's wife.

  She was the wife of a mogul. About five foot seven, a sleek body that was obviously well- and often pampered, luxurious auburn hair that fell in smooth ringlets around her shoulders, and full, pouty lips. Everything about Molly Townsend screamed wealth. The only non-alumnus in the room, she seemed to hold her own perfectly well amongst the crowd, falling on Allie immediately and engaging her in conversation.

  "So nice to meet you finally. Larry's told me so much about you. He has some wonderful stories about your college days together, I always laugh. I ask him all the time to repeat them, but he never repeats them. Oh, and you simply must not hold back when I ask you for the dark and dirty on my Larry. He swears he was a good boy, but I know better, and by the look in your eye right now I can see you do too. Am I right? You are a gorgeous one. I can see I'm going to have to keep my Larry on a leash around you."

  "Oh," said Allie, "no leashes, please."

  Molly squeezed her hand and bellowed out a siren of phony laughter that made Allie's teeth itch. "Wonderful! I like her already!"

  "She's beautiful, is she not!" cried Jürgen. "I tell her that when she come in!"

  Allie clapped her hands together once in awkward anticipation. "Well...ok...seeing as there are no children present, I guess I can take off my mask now."

  The joke fell flatter than month-old seltzer.

  Her mouth dried instantly.

  "Can I get you a drink?" said Larry Gordon.

  Allie nodded vigorously.

  "What do you have?"

  She thought it best not to ask for a gin and Fresca on ice with lime. No one seemed to have Fresca in the house anymore.

  "Grapefruit gin fizz, if you could."

  Larry's eyes widened as he turned toward the bar. "I think I can I think I can I think I can..."

  They made their way to the couch as everyone resumed their seats.

  "Oy," said Del under her breath.

  "I know," Allie said through a clench-toothed smile. "Apparently I'm beautiful too."

  Del gave her a look and rasped in quick staccato, "Shut up, I feel like a pig next to you."

  There was small talk about the weather and the leaf-peeping tourists and how they were finally beginning to thin out. Then a bit more about the weather and how a flurry was expected later on. Here in the lower Champlain Valley, so-called "lake effect" snow was commonplace. A quick storm could brew up as fast as a pot of coffee and coat everything on your side of the pond without so much as a friendly warning; like the old saying: If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes. There was more small talk about
the cold, and the price of lumber, and the stockpiling of "something to burn.” Such concerns were quite foreign to Allie, who was content to pay astronomical oil bills in winter just so she wouldn't have to find herself in conversation about "something to burn.” True, suicidal squirrels did tend to knock out frozen power lines, but that's why the Good Lord created generators and cell phones.

  Larry returned with the drinks. Allie sipped. Not as good as Douglas, from Dougie's Bar and Grill, served them up.

  "Well," said Larry, clapping his hands together and taking a seat on the armrest of the couch next to Allie. "Here we are: The complete editorial staff of the Lake Champlain University Chimera, winner of three awards."

  "All after we left," said Allie to the delight of the other guests.

  "Not so, not so. We got the NPD prize for our last issue."

  "Wrong," said Bertie Sommersville, taking off his glasses and polishing them with a handkerchief out of his breast pocket. "We got the Columbia Scholastic Press Association's Silver Crown, and it was because one of our photographers had an uncle on the judging panel."

  "Wait," said Del, "are you saying our award was bogus?"

  Bertie replaced his glasses. "No, but his was."

  They laughed, and then someone raised a glass and proposed a toast to old times and new times.

  "And to good business," said Larry, somewhat solemnly.

  "Hear, hear," said Allie.

  Molly Townsend stood up with her wine glass in hand and said, "How would you all like a grand tour of the place?"

  3.

  Crawford House was a maze. A wonderful, twisting, lose-yourself-in-a-daydream maze. The thud of their footsteps resounded on the wood floors, and dulled when there was carpet. For a large house, there was surprisingly very little space; that is, there was space, and a lot of it, but not a lot of room in the hallways. The same was true on the second floor, with its low ceiling, and the low, sloping ceiling on the third floor where there was a guest room; not to mention the doors to the rooms and bathrooms and closets all seemed a touch smaller than standard-sized doorways. Perhaps, Allie thought, this was all just an illusion brought on by the constant swirl of ever-growing space all around her, for the house never ended. Everywhere they turned there was another room with some bygone purpose: a larder, a music room, a fainting room. And then there was the library.