Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine 11

by Jack Grochot

  “The last man who worked here quit,” she said, walking toward me. “He said he couldn’t handle the loneliness.”

  “I don’t mind it,” I said, dropping the branches near some rocks, “it gives me a chance to think.”

  “What do you think about?”

  “All kinds of things.”

  I took off my work gloves and we began walking back to the main building.

  “I think a lot, too,” she said.

  “Sometimes I think too much,” I said.

  I tried to come up with an excuse to get away from her but nothing came to mind. When we reached the house she asked me if I could cook her something simple for dinner. She told me to surprise her. I went to one of the freezers near the kitchen, found some chicken, potatoes, celery, carrots, broccoli, zucchini, all grown on the property, then I walked into the kitchen, took down a stainless steel pot, and a cast iron wok, and got to work.

  “This is fantastic,” said Mrs. Jensen, a little later, as she sat at the oak dining table, digging into her stir fried chicken. “I insist that you sit down and join me for this excellent meal.”

  I reluctantly agreed, doled some food onto a plate, and sat down at the far end of the table.

  “Where did you learn to cook like this?” She asked, sipping a glass of Chardonnay I’d selected from the wine cellar.

  “I went to school,” I said. “I was going to open a restaurant.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got sidetracked.”

  “It’s not too late. You’re a wonderful cook.”

  “Maybe someday.”

  After dinner Mrs. Jensen had me light a fire in the fireplace. Afterward, I tried to exit gracefully, but she wouldn’t have it.

  “Don’t go, Tom,” she said, sitting on a chair near the fireplace.

  It wouldn’t hurt to keep her company, I thought. And as much as I hated to admit it, it was nice to have someone to talk to.

  “Have you ever been married, Tom?”

  “Once,” I said, “a long time ago.”

  She looked at me, then at the flames. “Marriage isn’t easy. John and I have been together for twenty five years. We have an arrangement. He has his life and I have mine. But it’s understood that we always come back to each other.”

  I nodded. My face was flushed. I wanted to tell her to stop talking, or change the subject.

  “This time it’s different,” she said, “he’s really found someone. And if that isn’t bad enough, she’s almost as young as our daughter. I’ve been told by people in the know that he actually claims to love her. Can you imagine?”

  I swallowed.

  “A plaything is fair game, but when it gets serious, well, something has to be done,” she said.

  “Uh,” I said, standing up, “I really don’t know if you should be telling me all this.”

  “Why not?” she said, “You’re intelligent, sensitive. I have the feeling that you understand what I’m going through.”

  “Look,” I said, “Mrs. Jenson …”

  “Kira.”

  “Kira, I don’t think it’s right what your husband has done, but he’s my boss, and—”

  “I’m your boss, too.”

  “Yes, of course, I wasn’t suggesting—”

  “I know you weren’t.”

  “I just think that maybe this is a discussion for a close friend.”

  “You’re a friend.”

  “I’m an employee.”

  She looked into my eyes and said, “I’m sorry. You’re right, of course.” She turned back to the fire, seemingly lost in thought.

  * * * *

  I spent the next few days trying to stay as far away from Mrs. Jensen as I could. I got up extra early, cooked breakfast and left it for her, then went outside on my rounds. I returned for dinner, but after preparing it, I made up a variety of responsibilities that required my attention—mending a fence, checking on drainage pipes, anything to get away. She seemed to be keeping her distance, too. And she didn’t once call my cell while I was roaming the grounds. As much as I tried to avoid it, I found myself thinking about her. Her sexy smile, her blue eyes, her intelligence and warmth. It felt good to be attracted to someone. It made me feel as if I was alive again. Not that I intended to act on my feelings, but just knowing that I could still experience anything other than loss and sadness was comforting.

  One night, after taking a hike in the woods, I returned to the house and found Mrs. Jensen on the couch, near the fireplace.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me,” she said.

  “W-why would I do that?” I said, taking off my coat and hat and placing them on a nearby chair.

  “Sit down on the couch,” she said, smiling, “I won’t bite.”

  I’d run out of excuses, so I went to the far end of the couch and sat down. She was wearing a low cut white blouse better suited to July than January. Despite myself, I glanced down, then back up at her face. She smiled as I realized that she’d seen me checking her out.

  “He’s leaving me, you know,” she said.

  “Your husband? But how—?”

  “I have my sources. There’s no question about it.”

  I looked at her, uncertain of what to say.

  “It’s unusual in our set,” she said, pushing some of her blond hair behind her right ear, “divorce. It’s still frowned upon. Upsets the bloodline.”

  “Ruling class,” I said.

  Her eyes sparkled. “They don’t call it that in this country. We like to pretend there’s no class system. In many ways we’re still very provincial here, but the old world has no such illusions.” She picked up a wine glass from a nearby coffee table and took a sip, then looked at me. “You probably know that my people are very blunt.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” I said.

  “Anyway, the point is that I like you and I know that you like me.”

  “You’re, uh, a likeable person.”

  “In a very short time my husband will be out of the picture, so we won’t have to worry about him. Not that it was ever a consideration of mine. But I can see that it’s something that’s been on your mind.”

  “Do you have telepathy?” I asked, smiling.

  “I’m a woman and you’re not a very good actor,” she said, taking another sip of her drink.

  My heart was racing. I stood up, walked to the fireplace and looked at the dancing flames. I thought that if I stared hard enough I might receive some divine wisdom that would tell me what to do next. But that didn’t happen. After a minute or two Mrs. Jensen came over and stood next to me. Together we watched the fire and didn’t speak. As we walked back to the couch she grabbed me and kissed me hard on the lips. I put my arms around her and felt her breasts press against my chest. Then her tongue was in my mouth and we fell onto the couch. Not long after, we made our way to the master bedroom and the king size canopied bed. She was wild and insatiable. And maybe I was too. Five years of being alone will do that to a man. I fell asleep in her arms with her scent in my nostrils.

  When I woke up, it was morning and she was gone. I got dressed and went out to look for her. I found her in the solarium, next to a potted palm. Staring through the glass walls, at the forest in the distance.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi,” she said glancing at me, then back at the trees.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, with little conviction.

  My first thought was that I’d been nothing more to her than a one night stand. Had I disappointed her? Or was she just bored with me?

  “I made a business decision recently.” she said, “I’m just thinking about it.” Then she turned to me, and said, “Shave, take a shower. Th
en we’ll eat something and take a walk.”

  When I went back to the kitchen Kira was at range with a frying pan. She slid an omelet onto a plate, handed it to me, and said: “You’re not the only one who cooks around here.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, “The Sorbonne?

  She smiled.

  After breakfast we put on our coats and walked through the woods. Winter light seeped through the tall evergreens, and cast long shadows on the cold ground. Kira hardly spoke and I could see that she was preoccupied. I’d had a good thing going and now it felt like everything had changed. I was at her whim. Not only could she end what she’d started, she could fire me without a second thought. I went to my room and pondered my foolishness. Had I said or done something wrong? After a while, I went out and took another walk.

  I lost track of time, because when I got back it was early evening. I found Kira in the library sitting at the Chippendale desk. As I approached, I said, “I’m sorry, I haven’t prepared dinner. What would you like?”

  “I’m not hungry,” she said, staring at the leather-bound books that lined the shelves.

  “If you change your mind…”

  She nodded and I left the room. A couple of hours later, I was sitting on my bed, listening to a Felix Mendelessohn piece on my clock radio, when I turned and saw Kira standing in the doorway.

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course,” I replied, turning off the radio.

  She sat down on one of the room’s two chairs, near the table. After a minute or two, she said, “He’s dead.”

  “Who?”

  “John. My husband, John.”

  “What happened?”

  “He had an accident in Barbados. Fell off his boat. Drowned.”

  “That’s horrible,” I got up and went over to her. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Just hold me.”

  We embraced for a long time. She was sobbing. Then she pulled away. “I’m going to my bedroom. I’d like to be alone.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  So that’s what she’d been so preoccupied with all day: the death of her husband. I glanced at the radio. It was nine o’clock. It all seemed suddenly surreal, like a dream. First the night before, now this. What a tragedy. And yet, I couldn’t help wondering how this news would affect us. If, in fact, there was an ‘us’. A divorce is one thing, a death was another matter. It was so overwhelming. And Kira was obviously in shock. They’d been together a long time. I’d have to step back, give her room to breathe. I felt very out of sorts when I got back into bed again. A day ago I knew what to expect out of life, now it seemed like all bets were off. My sleep was troubled, filled with dark dreams.

  The next morning I got up, took a shower, shaved, and got dressed. Instead of leaving my room, I sat at the table, dreading what might be waiting for me. There was a lot to do right now. Arrangements to be made, people, no doubt, to be called. It seemed overwhelming. I didn’t want to do anything, or talk to anyone. I didn’t want to leave my room. I turned on the radio. The weather report came on: “—once again, the temperature is twenty five, going down to fifteen…and now back to one of the stories we’ve been following, the death of industrialist John Jensen. At one o’clock this morning, Jensen was reported missing by crew members of his yacht, near Bridgetown, Barbados. After an extensive search of the area by local authorities, his body was recovered at eleven this morning. The boat’s crew were questioned and then released. Island police are calling it an accidental drowning.”

  I shut off the radio, and slumped in my chair. As I was staring at the wall, there was a knock on my door. When I didn’t respond, Kira opened the door and stepped inside. She was wearing a long black dress.

  “You look awful,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “How are you ?”

  She gave me a half smile. “I’m holding up,” she replied. “I have a lot of things to attend to.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  She left the room. I waited a few minutes, then put on my coat and took the back way out. I found myself at the lake, with so many thoughts in my head, it felt like it might explode. The timeline was all wrong, of course. Kira had been moody the whole of yesterday, and that was before she’d told me the news at ten PM. Even then it was four hours before her husband had been reported missing, and ten hours before the body was found. And that’s not even considering the fact that Barbados is one hour ahead of Eastern Standard Time. The question was: what should I do? Call the police? Or ignore the whole thing and go on as if nothing had happened. I looked at the lake and thought about how it felt being with her the night before last.

  “That little radio of yours is very loud,” said a voice. I turned and saw her standing near me. “I was in the hallway.”

  For a moment she stared at the lake, then said, “No one will believe you.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Because you are a servant,” she replied.

  The word stung. “I’m sure the police—”

  “We own this town,” she said.

  “Then the next one…” I said.

  “Who do you think put our state’s two senators in office?” she said, then looked away. “Whatever did or didn’t happen fifteen hundred miles away doesn’t concern you. Why don’t you just forget about it?”

  “I…I don’t know what to do.”

  “You seemed to know exactly what to do the other night,” she said, smiling.

  She looked at the water again, then said, “John and I had been together for a lifetime. I’m sorry it happened.”

  “You make it sound like it was meant to be.”

  “Some things are inevitable. It was all scheduled to take place a few hours earlier, but there was a delay, which I didn’t find out about until later, as you noticed. Hence my confusion about the time. Oh, well, it was an honest mistake.”

  I felt a chill go down my back. Then she looked at me and said, “I’ve been thinking about your future. “How’d you like to have that restaurant you talked about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m a businesswoman, I’d like to invest in you. You pick a location anywhere in the world, and I’ll back you.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Give it some thought,” she said. With that she turned and walked off. I stood alone for some time, in a daze. A loud honking noise snapped me out of it. I looked up, and saw a flock of Canadian geese, flying across the overcast sky.

  Dinner was a somber experience, punctuated by ringing phones, which Kira didn’t answer. Afterward, I went outside, and began walking. I mulled over all that had happened, replaying Kira’s words again and again. There was no arguing that there was a deep connection between us, much more than just the physical. She was romantic, passionate, and smart. I’d been attracted to her the moment we’d met. It could be an ideal life, filled with intellectual pursuits and luxury. An entree into another world, as different from the one I’d been living in as a barren wasteland is from a lush tropical paradise.

  The woods on the property’s north end bordered on a state forest. I went through the dense foliage slowly, so as not to get caught in the snare of the sharp brambles that seemed to grow everywhere. After a couple of hours,I found myself on a narrow dirt road. From there, I made my way to a paved two-lane highway, where I walked for another half hour. A few cars went by, and then I saw a truck approaching. I turned and stuck out my thumb. To my amazement, the truck pulled over and opened its passenger side door. A man with a baseball cap and a pock-marked face looked down at me and said, “Where you headed to?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, “how about you?”

  “Portland.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, climbing inside and closing the door.

 
“Kinda chilly tonight,” he said, as he stepped on the gas pedal.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Just then my cell phone rang. I pulled it out of my jacket and stared at it. It continued to ring. I opened the window and threw the phone into the dark forest.

  “That looked like an expensive one,” said the driver.

  “Not everything has a price tag,” I said, as I looked out at the long empty road ahead.

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING COUNTESS, by Jon Koons

  It was a glorious spring day in the year 1889. The air was still brisk, but surprisingly fresh for the city, and the walks and lanes down which I trod were lined with fragrant and colourful rosebay willow and London Pride.

  I awoke this morning fully with the intent of escorting my lovely wife, Mary, at her request, to the traveling circus that had made nearby Tunbridge Wells its temporary home, but those plans were laid aside, much to my wife’s dismay, by an urgent communication from my friend and associate, Sherlock Holmes. As I walked the accustomed route to 221 Baker Street, I reflected on some of Holmes’s past adventures which started out in this exact same manner. Upon arriving at my destination, Holmes greeted me warmly.

  “Ah, Watson, so good of you to come.”

  “Come, Holmes,” I replied, “I have rarely declined an opportunity to accompany you on one of your cases.”

  “Quite so, but since Mary Morstan made an honest man of you, yor availability has been somewhat more limited.”

  “One of the small disadvantages of married life, I’m afraid.”

  “A small disadvantage to be sure. Married life agrees with you, old boy.”

  “Not that I disagree, mind you, but what leads you to that conclusion, Holmes?”

  “Elementary, my friend. You have, of late, been more ebullient than ever. Your apparel has been more carefully coordinated, the obvious influence of a woman’s keen eye for fashion, and is better tended to, save for the small stain there on your vest... kippers, I would say... which indicates that you are being well fed. The fact that your ample stature has become even more so by eight or ten pounds would tend to support this conclusion. You are more precisely groomed, your shoes are finely polished and you appear more rested and less tense, an obvious benefit of the sort of companionship that you formerly lacked. Your occasional discourse regarding your wife is always favorable, and the very fact that you have been less available to join me lately clearly indicates that you are enjoying your current situation and reaping the benefits.”