There was nothing terribly special about her products, but Violet was an effective and tireless promoter of them. In the early days of the company, when its future was still in doubt, Violet had had the good fortune to be instrumental in helping the police break a difficult case. This generated a fair amount of publicity, but when Violet followed it up by solving a sensational murder on her own, she became a major celebrity, dubbed the “Society-Girl Detective.” She was very young, pretty enough not to need the cosmetics she manufactured, from an old, well-known family, intelligent, and a high-powered corporate executive. Thus for a brief period she became the darling of the media.
Violet was smart enough to realize that that kind of attention did not last, and also smart enough to parlay it into making her cosmetics the choice of all the modem young women who identified with her. Inevitably, of course, new darlings of the media came along, and Violet was finding it increasingly difficult to get the attention she needed. If not yet desperate, the situation gave some cause for concern.
Likewise, over the last ten years, Sebastian had worked hard to create a name for himself. It too was Cornichon—but there the similarity ended.
Living as though he would be penalized if there was anything left of the family fortune by the time he reached thirty, Sebastian seemed to want to achieve a reputation for flamboyance and extravagance unrivalled since the days of Caligula. So successful was he in this that an entire brigade of the Socialist Worker’s Party devoted itself exclusively to picketing him. Whenever he went out on the street he was greeted by a small group of protesters holding signs and shouting, “Dung-eating parasite! Boot-licking oppressor!” Sebastian would often smile, wave, and say, “Doesn’t that sound like fun?” Cynics said that Sebastian had hired them himself by making a large donation to the SWP, but that was probably just cattiness. It was true, however, that one Christmas he gave each of his picketers a small gold pin of a greyhound—in other words, a little yellow running dog.
For a long time, Sebastian, like his sister, was a favourite of the media, and each new adventure was catalogued and analysed at length. Even when he was resting up between excesses, he was sought out whenever a comment or reaction was needed, for he could usually be relied on to provide something quotable, if not absolutely libellous. Early on he was labelled “irrepressible”, and that designation stuck to him like a title of rank—as in, “Present were Lord and Lady Hohum and the irrepressible Sebastian Cornichon.…”
Perpetually maintaining a position in the forefront of the vanguard was arduous, and Sebastian was finding it harder and harder to avoid being swamped by each succeeding new wave. Violet had even heard rumours—which she’d dismissed as utterly implausible—that her brother was running out of money. It was a fact, though, that one of the leading arbiters of taste—who had previously participated in Sebastian’s extravaganzas and called him irrepressible—had written that Sebastian was starting to sound like Joan Crawford doing her Oscar Wilde imitation. Tough times, it seemed, were ahead.
There was no way of knowing if Violet was bitter because her brother had received the entire Cornichon estate, or if Sebastian was envious of the success his sister had achieved on her own. Both had learned early on that there were certain things one kept to oneself. They did tacitly acknowledge that they appreciated each other most in very small doses; active, positive hatred was a real possibility, mainly avoided by their getting together only at infrequent intervals.
“Boring,” Sebastian said.
“What?” Violet looked up from the book she had retrieved from the floor below the moosehead.
“Books like that are filled with pages and pages of boring exposition.”
“Mostly it’s necessary.”
“Necessary or not, it’s still boring.”
Sebastian stood up, walked to the end of the room, and placed himself in front of the roaring fire. Then he moved to examine the rather ratty specimens that filled the wall above and around the immense stone fireplace. The moose was accompanied by parts of several dozen fellow creatures that some lover of nature had once slaughtered.
“Tasteful,” Sebastian said.
He turned and walked the twenty or so yards to the opposite end of the lounge. The wall there was covered with a display of the weapons—bows, arrows, spears, clubs, daggers, shotguns, rifles, pistols, machine guns, and mortars—that had caused the destruction he had just considered.
“Charming,” he mumbled.
Restlessly, he went over to the French windows that took up most of the room’s long outside wall. The bleak November scene spread out before him contained nothing to lift the spirits. The windows opened onto a broad, grey stone terrace that ended in an ornate stone balustrade. Below and beyond the terrace, the land running down to the water’s edge was hard and barren, dusted with a barely visible layer of granular snow, the emptiness broken only by the occasional concrete birdbath or toppled piece of statuary. And past the shore, the only things to be seen were the lake and the sky, both the same grim slate-grey colour, so that it was impossible to tell where one started and the other left off. Sebastian thought it was like being inside a giant overturned chamber pot.
This was Komondor Island, site of the Sill family country house. Located near one of the continent’s most famous summer playgrounds (an area which had also bestowed its name on a popular salad dressing), the island was accessible only by a long boat ride, from either the mainland or another island. Urban Sebastian, distrusting any part of nature that could not be put into a food processor, felt slightly uneasy surrounded by so much of it.
The island got its name from a very rough anglicization of a Mohawk phrase, cho-moun-dhar, meaning “place of sacrifice”. The first Europeans to visit the island found cairns—piles of stones—that apparently had had some ritual function. The precise nature of these rituals was never determined, but Indian legend held that it was extremely bad luck to remain on the island overnight.
Shortly after the American Declaration of Independence, the island served as a temporary refuge for a band of United Empire Loyalists who had stolen a large part of the war chest of the fledgling Continental Congress. Pursued by a revolutionary force led by Aaron Burr, they hoped to escape attention by hiding on Komondor Island. Apparently they were successful. By the time Burr learned their whereabouts and organized an assault, the island was deserted. Whether the Loyalists’ stay on the island was lucky or unlucky is not known; where they went, or what happened to them, has never been discovered, and the incident remains an interesting historical footnote.
By the time millionaire magnate Augustus Sill purchased Komondor Island in the early nineteen-twenties, the region had long been a popular summer retreat for the very wealthy. There was something about owning an entire island that appealed to these people whose dominions tended to be more financial than territorial. Not surprisingly, these deep feudal urges resulted in the construction of some of the most fabulous gothic piles ever seen outside a film studio. The prime example of this period—known as Late Robber Baronial—was the mansion out of which Sebastian unhappily gazed. Built according to Augustus Sill’s own detailed instructions, his house was a not altogether successful amalgam of a Loire Valley chateau and Dracula’s castle—simple, classic elegance forcibly merged with crenellated battlements, fortified towers, and chortling gargoyles.
Seen from above, Komondor Island is roughly the shape of the stone ceremonial daggers found throughout the Americas, and this is possibly the reason it was known as—used for?—the “place of sacrifice.” It is not quite a mile long, and at its widest point—roughly the bottom of the hilt—it is just under half a mile across. The woods at the top half of the island were preserved, and Augustus Sill put his house in the lower part of the “blade.” From his observation turret he could survey the water on three sides, and thus would have plenty of advance warning in case any of the less fortunate rabble launched an expeditionary force against him. As near as can be determined from the few existing ol
d maps, the house happened to be built over the site of the ancient ritual cairns.
By all accounts, Augustus was regarded as having quite a sense of humour. He was considered one of the world’s great practical jokers, and thought there were few things more amusing than either observing people who didn’t know they were being watched, or leaping out at them from a place of concealment when they least expected it. Thanks to the personality of the host, weekend parties on Komondor Island were famous for being hilarious, if slightly tense, affairs. One day, though, Augustus’s inveterate kidding caught up with him when he sneaked up on a guest who believed himself to be alone in the room. Unfortunately, the guest had just finished loading a shotgun preparatory to taking a few pops at the local seagulls. The coffin was closed for the ceremony.
Augustus’s son, Ripley, did not have much better luck on the island. In the middle fifties, shortly after his young wife died in a freak boating accident, he happened to be unluckily positioned when one of the gargoyles on the observation turret somehow worked its way loose and tumbled down. His two-year-old daughter, Rosa, thus became the last surviving Sill.
For a while the local residents talked about the Curse of Komondor Island. Then Elvis Presley got into the news and they had other things to think about.
Sebastian Cornichon, staring glumly out of the window, neither knew about any of this interesting history of the place he was visiting, nor much cared to.
“And speaking of boring,” he said, going back to the couch, “what could be worse than being in a summer house in the middle of winter? In a grotesque mausoleum apparently decorated by Abercrombie and Fitch, on an island, in the middle of a lake, in the middle of a forest, in the middle of goddamn nowhere. Really! Why did I let you drag me out here?”
Violet looked at Sebastian, nodding her head and smiling. “If you’ll recall, when I happened to mention that I was coming up here, you practically begged me to get you an invitation.”
Sebastian fluttered his hand, as though to brush away this insignificant detail.
“What’s the matter, Sebastian? Can you no longer get invitations from people who know you, only from people who don’t?”
“Very funny—especially considering that lately you haven’t exactly been numero uno in the hearts and minds of the natives. Besides, while I did express some mild interest in this function, I distinctly remember your enthusiastically urging me to join you. It quite surprised me.”
“I did not urge you.”
“You did so.” Violet’s eyes opened a bit wider as she tilted her head back, and Sebastian quickly held up his hands. “But let’s not argue about this.”
“You mean we’ll have better things to argue about?”
Sebastian smiled. “Precisely. And anyway, no matter what, had I known it would take almost ninety minutes in that little boat.… And then to end up in a place like this.…”
Violet looked at the trophies on the wall and grimaced. “It is a bit remote.”
“Listen, New Jersey is remote. This is ridiculous. And why are we here, anyway?”
“I already told you. Weren’t you listening?”
“You know I never listen the first time anyone says anything. I only pay attention to things that are important enough to get repeated.”
“Yeah,” Violet nodded. “It’s one of your more endearing qualities. But are you sure it won’t be too boring for you to hear it again?”
Sebastian sighed in a long-suffering way. “It probably will be, Violet. But if you do a really good job, it shouldn’t be substantially more boring than, say, watching you read, or—” motioning to the wall “—counting the number of creatures who have lost their glass eyes.”
“How could I possibly refuse a request like that?”
Sebastian leaned forward, a tremendously intent, serious expression on his face.
“Give it a rest for once, would you,” Violet said, and Sebastian shrugged, then sat back. “Okay. Tomorrow is the twenty-fifth birthday of Rosa Sill.”
“Many happy returns.”
“They will be, all right. Tomorrow is the day that Rosa gets control of the estate that’s been held in trust for her since the death of her parents.” Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “An estate of which this house and island are only a small part.”
“Oh, my. Then this is a celebration?”
“I suppose so. Rosa was very insistent that the people who’ve been closest to her be present for the occasion.”
“But why here?”
Violet shrugged. “It must have something to do with her parents’ dying here. She’s never been back since that summer. In fact, except for caretakers, I don’t think anyone’s been here since that time.”
Sebastian shuddered. “Yuck. This is certainly not the way I’d celebrate becoming rich.”
“I know. Your party lasted eighteen months, and made the evening news three times.”
“Don’t be like that. You were invited.”
“Yes. To look after the refreshments.”
“You would’ve been paid. And it still would have been more amusing than this.”
“Well, Mousey obviously doesn’t share your appetite for excess and ostentation.”
“Mousey?” Sebastian said disbelievingly.
“That’s what I called her at boarding school. She was so little and nervous and timid. Just like a little brown mouse.”
“Charming,” Sebastian said.
“I was a couple of years older than Mousey—”
“Three,” Sebastian smiled.
“All right, three years older, and I felt sorry for the poor kid. She was such a plain little thing, and she didn’t have any parents, and she always seemed shy and frightened. So I looked after her, helped her along. I was a cross between big sister and best friend—sort of her mentor, you might say.”
Sebastian made a face. “Golly, Violet, that’s enough to bring on hyperglycemia. Give me a break.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. Nor do I doubt that, out of gratitude, poor little Mousey turned over her allowance to you every month and was your devoted slave.”
“Sebastian!”
“Come on, Sis. I was shipped off to a similar institution. I know how these things work.”
“Well, it wasn’t like that,” Violet said, perhaps huffing a little.
Sebastian shrugged. “Okay, it wasn’t. But—could it be?—now that poor little Mousey is about to become rich little Mousey you think that maybe she could use another dose of mentoring?”
“Sebastian,” Violet smiled, “I know you have difficulty understanding this because you’ve never had any, but friends help one another, they advise one another, they stand by one another no matter what.”
“Even when one friend has the bad luck to become burdened with an immense sum of money?”
“Rosa Sill and I were, are, and will be friends. She’s led a sheltered life. There are very few people she can rely on. If, because of my much greater experience in business and society, I’m able to offer her good advice, I’m happy to do so as a friend.”
“And perhaps suggest that if she put some of her capital into Cornichon Cosmetics, it not only would be a good investment, but would add another link to the chain of your relationship?”
Violet’s ordinarily pale skin flushed momentarily. “She could do worse.”
Sebastian, envisaging a helicopter dumping bags of currency above the city, eloquently raised his eyebrows, but decided that any remark he made would result in an escalating round of accusation and denial, counterattack and rebuttal, and he didn’t feel up to it just then. So he merely asked who else was going to be there for the festivities.
Violet nodded in acknowledgment of the change of subject, and much of the tension in her attitude relaxed. “As far as I know, her aunt and uncle will be here. They’re from her mother’s side, and I believe the aunt is Mousey’s only living relative. Then I assume her fiancé will be coming. Also the family lawy
er who’s been her guardian and trustee. And I guess the woman who’s been kind of a secretary-companion for Mousey will be here too.”
Sebastian shook his head and sighed heavily. “Doesn’t exactly sound like Mardi Gras, does it? What about these people? Are they as dull as they sound?”
“I have no idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I’ve heard a bit about them, but I’ve never met any of them.”
“Isn’t that kind of odd, you being her best friend and all?”
Violet shrugged. “Maybe it’s a little strange. But Mousey has always been so shy and unassertive that she likes to keep things small and simple, keep things separate. So I’ve never met the others.”
“Sounds to me as though she wanted to keep all the people who bully her from ganging up.”
“Sebastian, you insist upon misunderstanding everything. It’s not like that at all.”
“Maybe not. But now, suddenly, she’s bringing all you people together in one place at the same time. I wonder why? This might turn out to be interesting, after all.”
“I doubt it, but I’m sure you’ll do your best to make things uncomfortable for everyone.”
“Lively, Violet. I make things lively. When are the others due?”
“Any time now, I suppose. Mousey arranged for boats to be at several different places, so the others are probably on their way.”
“I hope so. It’s about time this show got on the road. Let’s see,” Sebastian said, counting on his fingers. “There’s you, me, aunt and uncle, fiancé, lawyer, secretary. That’s seven. Then there’s Medusa and the Yellow Peril.”
“I assume by that you mean the housekeeper and the cook. And you wonder, Sebastian, why no one invites you anywhere any more.”
“And little Mousey herself makes ten,” Sebastian concluded, ignoring his sister. “Ten people on an isolated island. Now, why does that seem familiar?”
An Old-Fashioned Mystery Page 2