MURDER at CRAWFORD HOUSE (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 3)

by Leslie Leigh

  #

  The guests gathered in the drawing room. It was the best place to go to establish common ground, this communal meeting room the size of an airplane hangar. It was a safe spot, as it was the first room they'd all gotten acquainted with. They milled about, pacing, sitting and thinking, drinking.

  "He's very arrogant, the chef," said Jürgen to no one in particular. "Terrible man. I seen these people like him all the time. They think they know everything. Psshh! They know nothing. So arrogant. So lofty."

  "And what makes you such an authority?"

  The interruption came from Bertie, who sat calmly in a comfy chair, nursing a glass of seltzer.

  "Excuse me?" said Jürgen.

  "No, excuse me. I'm sitting here listening to you blather on about these people. You mean French people, right? That's what you mean?"

  "Don’t you start with me, Bertie. You just like him, you know."

  "Yes, I have a bit of French blood in me. Being French doesn't make someone arrogant. A person is arrogant when they speak with authority on a subject and won't tolerate anyone correcting them. Let's see, who does that remind me of. Oh yes, like you, Appelhof!"

  Jürgen raised his voice, which became shrill and harsh, like an air horn through a kazoo. "That does it! You haven't changed, Bertie! You always a miserable man!"

  "Gee, I'm sorry if I offended you."

  "No! No! Don’t you start that stuff with me!"

  It was here that Rachel Forrester stood up and put her hands on Jürgen's shoulders. The gesture seemed more to disorient him than to pacify him, but did provide a moment of respite from the screaming.

  "People, people," said Allie. "Come on. We're here to have some fun, aren’t we, Bertrand?"

  Bertie stared at her intensely.

  "Bertrand," said Allie, "anyone ever tell you you look like an ostrich?"

  "Ha ha," Bertie said joylessly.

  Allie turned to the rest of the guests. "Listen, we're here because we all bonded twenty years ago. My god, I can't even believe it's been that long. We were the best editorial staff that school ever had. Am I right?"

  No one answered.

  "Fine. You can all be that way. And you know what? As long as you're going to be that way, then I can finally tell you something I've been holding back: I was not looking forward to this. Nope. Not at all. You wanna know why? Because each and every one of you has managed to see the world or hold interesting jobs. Rachel, Del and I, all we've seen is the town of Verdenier – population thirty-five hundred not including the cows – from just about every angle, and that's about it. But Rachel's married and she and her husband are happy and run a landscaping business that does pretty well. And Del is an actress and lives the life of a performer and an artist. Me? I'm a widow with way too much time on her hands.

  "You really think I wanted to see any of you and listen to how much life you've all lived in the past two decades? If so, you’re delusional. But you know something? You've actually endeavored to make me, for once, not feel guilty about feeling the way I was feeling. You know why? Because it's been nothing but misery and bickering and unspoken angst for the past three hours. And now it's starting to snow – and by the way, thank you, Channel Six weatherman, for somehow failing to warn any of us about the blizzard that managed to come up out of nowhere in the last five minutes, because now I can finally feel extra miserable for coming in the first place because it looks like I'm going to be stuck here with all you wretched ninnies for the next two days and I won't even be able to take a walk to escape you without becoming a cryogenic experiment for some budding young post-doc archeologist a hundred years from now! So congratulations, each and every one of you! I hereby present to you all: the coveted Weekend-Killer of the Year Award! You've earned it, friends. You've earned it."

  To say there was a silence after Allie finished was like saying that there is a silence in a sound-proof room after one has had one's ears next to the engine of a Lear jet at full throttle.

  Allie went to the bar, poured herself a half a tumbler of straight scotch, took a long, healthy swig, and nearly asphyxiated as it went down. She composed herself, took a deep breath, and went back to the guests, who all sat uncomfortably looking every which-way but at each other or at her. She felt like a million bucks, as if she'd just been purged of a poison in her system. She felt detoxified. A knot that had been in her gut suddenly wasn't there anymore.

  "Alrighty," she said. "Who's up for backgammon?"

  No one answered.

  Larry Gordon came into the room just as the guests were beginning to marinate in that horribly awkward silence. He was apparently unaware of what had just occurred.

  "Folks," he said softly, "I cannot express how sorry I am that you had to be witness to that altercation between Molly and Monsieur Michaud. I'm ashamed and...embarrassed by the whole thing. I'm hoping this does not put a damper on the weekend for any of you. I assure you, they’ve managed to iron it out. And dinner is still on." He smiled and rubbed his hands together and shifted about. "Well, uh, I think it's almost ready. Uh, we can probably start heading into the dining room. It's right next door."

  #

  Held in the spectacularly ornate dining room, dinner was a sumptuous affair, beginning with a soup course featuring the contentious lobster bisque that almost resulted in World War III. Allie's habit of people watching seemed to be in hyper drive tonight, as the day's drama only heightened the tension between the guests, especially Bertie and Jürgen.

  With Larry at the head of the table and Molly at the other end, the soup bowls were filled liberally and distributed, and a delectable steam rose up. Allie breathed it in, closing her eyes and enjoying the Zen-like moment.

  Larry held up his glass."To old times. And to the best college literary magazine on the planet."

  They all clinked glasses and sipped. Yet through it all, that horrible tension buzzed in the room.

  As they began to eat, Allie's eyes just happened to fall on Jürgen. She watched the Dutch man take a slurp of his soup, smirk, and then shake his head as he put down his spoon.

  "Excuse me," he said, rising with his bowl in his hands.

  "Is there a problem?" said Larry.

  "Nope," said Jürgen. "I take care of it." He walked to the threshold of the dining room, then turned and asked, "Your chef, he go home?"

  Larry answered in the affirmative and Jürgen turned and walked out.

  A couple of minutes later, he returned, a triumphant smile on his face. "All better now," he said. "I fix."

  With a cautious giggle, Larry asked, "What was wrong?"

  "Too salty," said Jürgen. "But it's ok, Larry. I fix." He took a loud slurp from his spoon. "Ah, perfect."

  "The staff didn’t give you any problem?"

  "No, I explain to them. It's ok, Larry."

  "I know it's ok," said Larry. "It's jus—, they're very particular in there is all."

  "Yes, they are particular about salt. And I fix. You want me to fix yours too?"

  "No, thank you."

  The main course was a grilled filet mignon with black truffle sauce with white asparagus on the side. Everything was cooked to perfection, the soup excepted, Allie thought – Jürgen and Molly were right about that. And the salad dressing had too much garlic. That was one thing that stood out even more so than the salty soup. It was a simple red wine vinaigrette, and Michaud had managed to render it almost completely inedible with the addition of enough garlic to keep Dracula's entire family away for a year.

  Dessert was a pistachio crème brûlée that Allie quickly pinpointed as the exact thing she'd order for her last meal were she ever to find herself on death row.

  As the coffee was poured out, Allie said, "So Larry, what is your favorite memory?"

  "My all-time favorite?" said Larry.

  "Well, we can cover that too if you want, but I was thinking of your favorite memory from our time working on Chimera."

  "Well, my favorite memory is probably the time you came up with t
hat name."

  "I never hear this one," said Jürgen.

  "Mind if I tell it?" said Larry.

  "I'll tell it," said Allie. "You'll ruin it or wind up making yourself look like the hero."

  They shared a light laugh and Allie began.

  "Ok, so you all know I came on board fairly late. And there I was, this nerdy little lit major with a chip on her shoulder. I wound up marrying a doctor, by the way, on a side note, making me the first person in history to have a literary degree actually pay off."

  Again, a shared laugh lightened up the room.

  "So I came on board, and I think I was talking to you, Bertie, is that right?"

  Bertie shrugged at his bowl of bisque. "Yeah, I think so."

  Allie felt put-off by this response. "Ok then. Anyway, I was talking to somebody about the gig and after I got back to my dorm, all elated that I might possibly fit in to at least a tiny gaggle of my own kind, suddenly it occurred to me that I didn’t even know the name of the magazine. I felt so dumb for not asking. Well I asked around and found out the name of the thing was The Sticker Book, which made absolutely no sense whatsoever. The Sticker Book? Are you kidding me? What drug-addled hippie mind thought that one up? Well, when I showed up that first day, Larry here was the only one in the English office. I said, and I'll never forget the look on your face, and I still can’t believe that I had the guts to say it, I said, 'So can we please, for the love of God, change the name of this toilet paper?'"

  The guests burst out laughing.

  "I was so insulted," said Larry.

  "You looked like you were going to belt me one, à la Ralph Kramden."

  "To the moon, Alice!" said Larry.

  "Exactly. So anyway, I said, 'Listen, I have it on good word that this magazine needs to be held to a higher standard,' because you see I'd been talking to people. I said, 'Let's start with the name and work our way up to fonts and then finally to content.'"

  "It's true," said Larry, "I swear on my life, that's exactly how she put it."

  "Do you remember what you said in response?"

  "I said, 'You're one of us.'"

  "Very good," said Allie. "So I said, 'Why don’t we call it Chimera?' Larry said, 'Huh?' And I said, 'Chimera. It's a mythological beast, first mentioned in the Iliad. It's an animal made out of the parts of other animals.' I figured, why not? That's exactly what a literary magazine is."

  "Genius," said Jürgen.

  "Thank you, good sir."

  At this point, one of the wait staff came in with what looked like an urgent message, whispering in Larry's ear.

  He excused himself from the table and went quickly out of the room. Upon returning some moments later, he explained the situation.

  "Apparently," he said with some amusement in his voice, "the snow is getting worse. The waiter you just saw was the last of the staff to remain. Unbeknownst to me, Michaud had dismissed them all. So, since the last of the staff is braving the blizzard, we're left taking care of our own plates, and we may be snowed in for the weekend." He held up his coffee cup. "Cheers."

  #

  It seemed as though a pall had been cast over the entire weekend with this latest development. The guests rose from their seats, each with a plate and silverware in hand in a show of solidarity with the Gordons and their staff-less predicament.

  "Just put them right in there," Larry said, indicating the huge industrial sink in the corner of the kitchen. "Someone will take care of them."

  Allie had politely let everyone else go first. While she waited, she studied Larry Gordon's face. Here was a man trying with all his might to save face and grin and bear a weekend that was unraveling before his eyes, and he was powerless to stop it.

  "Well," he said to Allie, "dessert was good at least."

  "Dessert was phenomenal!"

  "You like my house?" The man looked positively heartbroken.

  "Larry, your house is...unreal."

  This brought a smile to the man's face.

  "Really. And our room is outstanding. There's no other word for it. The view...my God, the sunrise must look amazing from there."

  His face changed. "The sunrise?"

  "Yeah, from the windo—, oh right. I forgot to tell you; we switched rooms with Bertie. I was going to tell you. I hope you don’t mind."

  "With Bertie? Why?"

  "He said the sunlight irritates him or something."

  The man looked downtrodden. "I really wish you'd said something. We planned everything out." Then he shrugged, "Oh well. There's no staff anyway. We’ll just adjust. Go ahead; we’ll meet in the drawing room. I want us to talk of old times. Maybe we can salvage some of this weekend, eh?"

  He followed Allie out and went upstairs while she walked over to Rachel Forrester who stood by an immense bay window in the breakfast nook, gazing out at the blanket of white that lay all around.

  "Crazy, huh?" said Allie.

  The woman started. "You scared me. I didn’t even hear you approach."

  "I'm sorry." She pointed to the window. "Crazy, huh?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

  The woman wrung her hands while she stared at the snow.

  "Everything ok, Rachel?"

  Rachel took a deep breath. "Yeah. Everything's fine."

  "It's just that your hands—"

  "I'm fine. I'm just a little anxious. I don’t like being snowed in with... I just don’t like it."

  "I can understand that. I'm about to have a nervous breakdown."

  The woman smiled, but it was short-lived.

  Allie stood next to her, gazing. Now was as good a time as any, maybe, if there ever would be a good time.

  "Rachel, I need to talk to you. I rehearsed this over and over and it never sounded right, so I'm just gonna wing it. I'm sorry. Back when the whole Tori Cardinal affair went down, I was a rather inept investigator and I—, I know it must have sounded like—, I said to you that— Sure is snowy out there, isn't it?"

  "Allie, that's water under the bridge."

  "Are you sure? I mean, Rachel, I always counted you as kind of a kindred spirit. We have similar backgrounds and, I don’t know, I just always thought you'd make a good friend. I was very upset when I insulted you."

  The woman nodded and the hint of a smile appeared on her face. "Allie, I was upset, but that's all in the past. It's over. We're ok, you and I. Ok?"

  "Ok." She smiled. "We’ll, I'm going to go upstairs now and curl up in a fetal position. I'll see you in a little bit. Gordon wants to shoot the breeze about old times. Should be interesting."

  Rachel smiled, then turned back to look outside.

  On the way up, Allie bumped into Larry Gordon.

  "You going to meet us in the drawing room?" he said quickly.

  "Yeah, just want to freshen up a bit."

  Larry hopped down the stairs and disappeared around the corner. Allie continued on up, and a feeling of desperation—of anxiety toward impending, relentless boredom, and of chronic claustrophobia —descended on her like a lead blanket; and she ran to her room, past Del, and threw herself on the bed, screaming maniacally into her pillow.

  5.

  "I knew it. Didn’t I say it before? Didn’t I?"

  Allie was pacing their room and speaking in hushed yet forceful tones.

  "Yes, you said it," Del said lackadaisically.

  "Snowed in. I'm going to go insane with these people. You think anyone would mind if I just stayed in here all weekend? Or in the library? That's an idea! I'll sleep in the library. You think it has a lock on the door?"

  "Listen, sunshine, relax. It's not so bad. There's plenty to do here."

  "With no chef or staff? Wake up, Del. Without the five-star meals, there's nothing. I seriously don’t think Larry or his wife have prepared a meal on their own in years. We'll be lucky to get a canned soup."

  "Alright," said Del, rising from the bed. "You've obviously had too much caffeine. Just relax."

  "Do you know how long this blizzard is supposed to last?
"

  "I think I left my meteorology degree in my other pants."

  Allie fumbled in her bag for her phone. "I'm going to check with the National Weather Service right n—" She froze, and then looked at Del.

  "What?"

  "No service."

  Del let out a laugh that enraged Allie right down to her socks. She threw her phone on the bed, and fell down next to it. She felt like burying her face in the pillow and sobbing. Del patted her back tenderly and leaned down to her ear. "My darling, I'm going to go number one." Then she went into the bathroom.

  Rising from the bed, Allie decided that this was not going to wreck her completely. She left the room to go to the other bathroom on the floor in order to splash some water on her face and perhaps regain a bit of calm and resolution in the process.

  But the bathroom was occupied.

  Frustrated beyond the capacity for words, she turned and went back to her room. It was 7:45 p.m.

  #

  Downstairs, the guests were assembled, sipping their after dinner drinks. All except Bertie, who was upstairs.

  "I want that man down here this instant," Larry said in mock tones like a school headmaster. "Del, darling, will you be a pet and go upstairs to fetch him for us?"

  "Righto," said Del, happy to play along.

  The mood was lightening up a great deal, with everyone resigned to the situation and an unspoken feeling of making the best of it wafting through the air. Lighthearted ribbing and old, inside jokes flew back and forth like tennis volleys. Allie felt some of her anxiety melting away, and figured that if the rest of the weekend was like this, they'd emerge none the worse for wear, with a pretty neat adventure to speak and reminisce about in the future.

  She was feeling like this until Del came down looking ashen.

  "Bertie's in the bathroom and...he won’t come out."

  Amid some giggles, Allie asked, "What do you mean he won’t come out?"

  "He's not coming out. I knocked, I called. I think something's wrong."