MURDER at CRAWFORD HOUSE (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 3)

by Leslie Leigh

  This great room was on the first floor, adjacent to the master bedroom, and it held a marvelous collection of old books and new books alike. Allie, a longtime sufferer of chronic bibliophilia, vowed silently to spend as much time as she could in this room, with its cozy fire and its earth tones and plush chairs and polished wood tables topped with all manner of knick-knacks and doilies.

  Two doors down was Larry Gordon's magnificent office. The desk of a giant loomed menacingly in the center of the room. Against the wall, built into it and recessed slightly, was a floor-to-ceiling arrangement of bookshelves filled with reference volumes, mostly business-related.

  Next was a quaint breakfast nook, completely set for the next morning, and a large bay window let in the remainder of the light of sunset, which bathed the room in blood.

  And then came the kitchen, large enough to serve as the operational hub of a five-star restaurant in New York City. A team of underlings flitted between stations, all doing the bidding of their head chef, introduced to the guests by Larry as Monsieur Michaud, a two-time Michelin-winner and graduate of Le Cordon Bleu and former resident of the Kitchen At Camont in Gascony. Michaud scowled at the guests as if he was scripted to do so, and then nodded without any discernable emotion to them when introduced. He was a short, stout man whose presence filled the room. There are those who lack physical stature that compensate for this misfortune by a commanding presence. Michaud's voice boomed from his chest like a cannon, and Allie could have sworn she saw a sous chef on the other side of the room have his hair blown sideways as a result of it. He was an awesome sight, Michaud. And Gordon promised great things to come from him.

  Next was a massive screened-in porch that Molly Gordon had converted into a greenhouse. It was a meld of contemporary and classical styles of indoor garden. Walking through it was like walking through some kind of Buddhist contemplative space for the modern millionaire. It had been outfitted with levels, each level receding further toward the back of the garden. Pots and troughs were all around them, at their feet, raised on decorative blocks and risers, and hanging on the walls. The scent of spring was everywhere, overwhelming and incredible.

  "There are over a hundred different species here," explained Larry. "Some of them quite rare."

  "I would have never figured you for a gardener," said Allie.

  "I merely dabble. It's my wife who's the true gardener of the house."

  Allie turned to Molly. "You're telling me you tend to this all by your tiny self?"

  Molly smiled and shrugged. "What can I say? I like flowers."

  And with that came the end of the tour, and Larry escorted them to their respective rooms.

  #

  When she first got the personalized invitation from Larry, Allie had agreed to share a room with Del. She'd often said she and Del would drive each other crazy if they ever lived together, as they almost did when they roomed with each other in college. But they figured the friendship was stronger now and could survive forty-eight hours of co-habitation.

  Larry brought them upstairs, and Allie and Del were the first to get their room, as it was the first room to the left of the staircase.

  The room was about as large as your basic hotel room master suite. Done in vintage brown and gold, it was somewhat sparsely furnished. The king-sized four-poster bed with its canopy of intricate antique lace sat in stately manner in the center of the room. Off to the side, perpendicular to the two arched windows, curtained with floor-length sheers, was a lovely dresser made of polished mahogany. These pieces, plus a couple of standing hangar bars, made up the complete furnishings.

  As their gracious host guided the rest of the guests to their rooms, Allie and Del set their travel bags on the bed and began unpacking.

  "Damn," said Del.

  "What?"

  "I forgot to ask him where the bathroom was."

  "Well he's right down the hall."

  Del poked her head out the door then turned back to her friend and said, "If I'm not back in thirty minutes, call the coast guard."

  Allie took a moment to savor the surroundings. It must be nice being this rich, she thought. Her late husband Tom and she used to talk about "one day": One day we'll hit the lottery; one day we'll live in a castle. It was all play, of course. The day she said yes to him was the day she decided she'd live in a teepee with him if she could. Without love, a home is as empty as one feels. But this kind of opulence was the kind of emptiness she could get used to, she joked with herself. Tom would have appreciated that. She indulged herself in a moment of mourning. It was times like this, without a joke to be heard by his ears and appreciated with his fine, full laugh, that she missed him terribly.

  "Knock, knock!"

  Allie jumped and swung around at the sudden interruption. Bertie Sommersville was standing in her doorway.

  "So sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

  Allie winked and said, "Depends on the favor."

  Bertie gave a generous chuckle and said, "I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind switching rooms?"

  She looked around. She couldn’t imagine any of the rooms being any less exquisite than this one. "Uh, I suppose not. What's wrong with yours?"

  The tweed-jacketed man looked apologetic. "The room faces east and I can’t stand the sun."

  Allie shrugged. "I'm alright with that. You sure?"

  A look of relief came over Bertie's face. "Absolutely. Thank you so much."

  She gathered up her things and repacked them haphazardly for the trip down the hall.

  Upon entering Bertie's room, one thought came into her mind: Why on earth would anyone want to leave this room?

  It was twice as large as hers, located in the corner tower. True, the hexagon walls with their long, thin windows did provide ample opportunity for the greenhouse sunbather, but it seemed to Allie that one really had to have nurtured an intense hatred for sunlight indeed if one wasn't even willing to consider the beauty of this room a fair trade-off. It even had its own bathroom.

  "Bertie," she said, "I'm gonna ask you again. Are you sure you want to switch?"

  "Positive."

  "You need those glasses adjusted or something?"

  Again, a generous laugh. "No, I really can’t take that much sun in my eyes or on my skin. Hypersensitive."

  "Ok," she said resolutely.

  He thanked her again and left the room with his bag in hand.

  Two minutes later, Del appeared in the doorway."So I can’t help but notice that good ol' dandy Bertie is unpacking his things in our room."

  "Oh yeah," said Allie. "Sorry about that. He wanted to switch."

  "Sorry? You're sorry about this? This room is ten times as gorgeous as that slum we just came from."

  "It is, isn’t it? Bertie said he hates the sun."

  "Well Bertie's nuts, you know that. His loss." Del surveyed the room, and then snapped her head back quickly. "Our own bathroom!"

  Allie found herself giggling like a schoolgirl. This did actually feel like a schoolgirl's sleepover.

  "I'm happy to see you found your way here."

  "Yeah, well, Bertie gave me a map. So, all this on a software CEO’s salary, eh?"

  "That's about the size of it."

  "Oh, hey..." Del's voice became low and gossipy and she splayed herself across the bed and leaned on her elbows, her legs crossed in the air. "How about Ms. Rachel Forrester?"

  "I expected a bit of a colder reception."

  "Excuse me; you could make ice cubes with her breath."

  "No, I really was expecting something else. I guess she's almost over it. There comes a time when you just have to stop hating one another."

  "How about Gordon's wife?"

  "Now there's a piece of work."

  "A gold-digging piece of work," said Del.

  "I sort of got that impression. Oh, and then there's Jürgen."

  "And then there's Jürgen."

  Allie giggled again. "Was he always that creepy?"
/>   "Um, yeah. I'm surprised you don’t remember."

  "I guess I only remember what I want to remember."

  "Welcome to humanity, my dear. Enjoy the buffet."

  "Yeah, well, I was almost looking forward to this weekend. But there's a strange feeling in this house. You feel it?"

  Del thought for a moment. "Yeah, I felt it when I saw it."

  "No, it's not the appearance. The appearance is lovely and gothic and spooky and fun. I'm talking about the air in here, the mood. There's something heavy, like ether."

  "I don’t smell anything."

  "I was being metaphorical. There's a feeling here I can’t describe. It's like..." Allie searched for the words while looking out one of the four thin windows that let in the last of the day's fading light. "It's like one of these people did something terrible and everyone knows about it, only no one is talking about it."

  Del nodded. "Yeah, I kinda see what you mean. Almost like we missed something by arriving so late."

  Allie slapped the girl on the shoulder. "Exactly!"

  "Ow! I really wish you'd stop doing that."

  "Come on," said Allie, "help me unpack."

  "Oh yes," said Del, rising from the bed, "that reminds me. What do you think of Monsieur Le French or whatever his name is?"

  "Monsieur Michaud?" Allie said in a cartoonish accent. "Definitely a character."

  "He frightens me."

  "Everyone frightens you. As an actress you should be more receptive to people."

  "I'm receptive and observant. I don’t have to enjoy it."

  Allie stopped unpacking and looked at the mound of clothes on the bed. "How long are we here for again?"

  By her friend's laugh, Allie sensed that she knew where this was headed.

  "Two days, dearie."

  "And can you tell me why I packed two weeks' worth of clothes?"

  "I did the same thing."

  She was holding two shirts in her hand, and now she dropped them on the bed in defeat. "I'm tired of this. Let's go say hi to our neighbors."

  Navigating the hallway wasn't nearly as futile as Del had made it out to be. It wrapped around the upper floor of the house –the walls encompassing the giant drawing room below – so that anyone traversing it would eventually wind up at the same spot. Leaving their new bedroom, Allie and Del took a left and wound up in the back corner of the house, which was occupied by Rachel Forrester's room. Her door was closed so they went on, passing the upper floor's main bathroom. It was also occupied. The next door on the left was Jürgen's room. His door was open.

  The man dropped an armload of clothes onto the bed and received them with open arms. "Come in, come in, my beautiful ladies! Look at this room, huh?"

  Jürgen's room was almost as nice as the room on the opposite corner that Allie and Del had inherited through Bertie's good graces. There were the same high ceilings and the same luxurious furnishings they'd now come to expect.

  "Fabulous," said Del. "Ours is nicer."

  The Dutch man smiled lasciviously. "Oh is that so?"

  "Watch yourself, Jürgen," said Del. "I sleep with a machete."

  Jürgen clapped his hands together. "Wonderful! Then I foresee some adventure."

  "Well," said Allie, "we just made the bargain of a lifetime by switching with Bertie."

  "Oh, him?"Jürgen lowered his voice, which somehow made it more cartoonish than ever. "I don’t trust that man."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "For one thing he don’t drink. He sits there with his club soda and he scowls, like he's judging you. You watch him. He judges you. And you." He pointed to Del.

  "Well you remember him from school," said Allie. "He was always eccentric. And I hear he's holed up all day in an antiques store. He spends his days surrounded by other peoples' memories. You can’t expect him to be a skilled people person."

  Jürgen shook his head vigorously. "I don’t trust him. I don’t trust anyone that clean."

  Rather than try to decipher the meaning behind Jürgen's personal problem with Bertie's entire demeanor, the women excused themselves politely and continued along the upper floor heading toward Bertie's room – which they saw up ahead – and remarking upon the décor of the place. All around the hallway were small tables – some with drawers – against the wall; some with lamps, others decorated with frames, all non-functional; that is, for no other purpose than to fill in the empty spaces in the hallway. These sat beneath oil paintings of no particular prominence, save for the fact that their colors matched perfectly with the burgundy wallpaper and their frames in perfect harmony with the ornate wainscoting that ran along the wall beneath the chair rail. Evenly spaced were sconces with fake candles doing little more than spilling their dull orange glow around the tiny spaces they occupied.

  The whole place smelled of old wood and coldness. There were heating ducts that were obviously of very recent origin along the low ceiling, but they were either inefficient, needed a good cleaning, or the heat hadn't kicked in yet.

  "Ok," Del said with a shiver, "I'm convinced: this house is haunted."

  "Oh stop that," Allie admonished her friend, and pointed out the ducts overhead and their apparent uselessness. "The heat's not on. Isn’t that more likely than a supernatural cold spot?"

  "Maybe in other homes. Not in this one."

  "I think it's neat. It's got a cold, gothic charm about it. Like something you'd see on Dark Shadows."

  It was then, upon their approach to the staircase, that they suddenly became aware of a commotion coming from the floor below: voices arguing, quickly rising to a fever pitch.

  4.

  When they reached the bottom of the staircase, Monsieur Michaud and Molly Townsend were locked in a heated battle of words.

  "When my job is done, it is done!" cried Michaud.

  "But it's not done, is what I'm trying to explain to you if you would stop screaming like a banshee for one second and listen!"

  With a dismissive wave of the hand, Michaud turned away, saying, "Ah, I don’t work for you anyway. I work for your husband."

  Molly Townsend walked around the chef and got in his face. "You work for both of us, Chef Phillippe!"

  Saying the man's first name seemed to rouse him back into argument mode and he began to scream at the top of his voice in French. Allie, never a French student but knowing a few words and phrases by sheer virtue of having lived amongst Canadian transplants all her life, could pick out the French words for "stupid", "terrible", "sick" or "crazy", "degenerate", and "slob", and those were the clean ones, and non-gender-specific.

  Molly matched the verbal barrage with one of her own delivered in flawless French. The woman's elegant beauty suddenly transformed before Allie's eyes into a raging hellcat, bellowing with a voice that, in less educated and enlightened times, would've been considered ample evidence for demonic possession.

  Allie and Del stood at the foot of the stairs and watched with jaws agape, as the other guests emerged from where they had been to observe the fight as well. Allie looked over to her right and saw Larry Gordon standing against the wall, helplessly out of the fray, ostensibly getting ready for an intense job of damage control once this was all over.

  The argument carried on as Michaud made his way to the back of the house toward the kitchen, so Allie surmised, now speaking in dismissively calm tones, with Molly following close on his heels and screaming at him almost incoherently.

  Larry Gordon watched them leave as a baby mouse might watch its mother be carried off by a vulture. He stepped away from the wall, rubbed his palms on his trousers, and looked around. A look of unbridled horror sunk his face as he realized that the whole affair had attracted an audience.

  He stammered for a moment, then cleared his throat prodigiously and said, "If any of you would like a cocktail before dinner, please feel fre— The bar is in the drawing room, you all know where it is. I apologize. I'll be joining you shortly."

  With that, Larry Gordon left.

  The othe
rs disappeared into the drawing room, save for Allie and Jürgen, who stood shaking his head in apparent disappointment.

  "Tsk, tsk, tsk, awful man. I don’t like him."

  "Who? Michaud?"

  "Larry. Did you ever see a man so, what's the word? I can say it in Dutch. Henpecked? Is that it?"

  "That's it. But I kind of feel sorry for him. He looks so lost."

  "He's not a real man. A real man does not let his wife get that way. No disrespect, Allison. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like Michaud either. He's terrible. Reminds me of a dictator screaming from the balcony. I don’t like his type. Larry too. I don’t like their types."

  "Anything you need to get off your chest, Jürgen?"

  The man thought for a moment, not getting the irony. "Nope, I'm done." And he walked off into the drawing room to join the others.

  A moment later, Larry emerged from the kitchen.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I have a few things to take care of. I'll join you all in a few minutes. Dinner should be soon."

  Allie wasn't about to let her host go without an explanation, though she pressed him gently about it.

  The argument had begun when Molly entered the kitchen and exclaimed how wonderful it all smelled. She then, according to her own words, walked to the pot containing the lobster bisque, grabbed a tasting spoon, and sampled the dish.

  According to Molly, she asked Michaud calmly if he could adjust the bisque so that it wasn't so salty. According to Michaud, he'd turned around to see her attempting to fix the soup herself. She claimed she was only tasting. He said a stupid woman had no right to be in his kitchen and that his bisque was perfect without her input. It escalated from there and turned into an argument about how he wanted to leave because it was beginning to snow outside and he was done for the evening. That now it was up to the sous chef and the servers, and once they were done they had no more business there, and for their safety they should be dismissed immediately. Molly countered that the snow wasn't bad enough to warrant such concern. That's when it got ugly, as Allie and the rest of them had seen.