by Tyler Colins
Wayne, the former bookie, called just before Prunella and Percival had a blow up. It had been a short but raucous affair that resulted in a broken Cinnabar Chinese vase and swearing that turned Adwin's pale face an interesting shade of rose. Wayne said Thomas' gambling problem had run into the hundreds of thousands of dollars. He'd annoyed a few prime turf accountants and the odd mobster, including someone named Triple J, who'd died mysteriously in the eighties. Triple J had to be none other than the infamous Jimmy Jojo James. Somehow our blubbery barrister had always managed to steer clear of brass knuckles and concrete boots, but only just – hold on though. Triple J had died when Porter was still co-owner of that nightclub. And Thomas had a link to the mobster. Could the two men have known each other back then?
Come to that, where had the cook been those years he'd not been on the radar? Culinary school? Slinging hash in diners? He'd left Le Cochon Volant in the mid nineties and not shown up at the Moone estate until 2003.
Stepping to a drawing room window, I gazed out onto a glassy wonderland. The only life forms that might enjoy the outdoors today were Gentoo penguins. “What do you know about Thomas Saturne's personal life?”
Wayne chuckled. “Ya mean his love life? His family and all that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He loved the fillies – the four-legged kind.”
I laughed.
“He had the odd gal pal when I was still in the business. One was named Alice Sinatra – no relation to Old Blue Eyes. They lasted two years. That was at the end of the 90s. Guess she didn't like playing second fiddle to a horse, because she wanted him looking at her tail, not the mare's. Then he dated here and there, but didn't seem interested in getting serious for a long time.” He paused. Vintage Randy Travis started to play in the background. “About a year ago, there was a younger odd one. She didn't seem his type.”
Younger odd one? Prunella? Not likely, but I asked anyway. “You mean Prunella Sayers?”
“No, not that one.”
“You're sure?”
“I knew about her – like who'd forget a name like that? This one was, hmm, mid-twenties maybe. It was hard to tell. She was dressed in clothes someone more in her fifties might wear: classy and not cheap, but 'old world'. I bumped into the two of them at a bar in the Fens. He seemed kind of anxious seeing me there, but he was polite enough. She had this strange smile on her face, like she had a secret and wasn't going to share.”
“What did she look like?”
“Creamy skin. Cool eyes. Clean, fresh; you know? She was wearing a short skirt made of nice fabric and a tight top, not sleazy though. The clothes were classy and expensive, like I said. She had nice toned arms and athletic legs that were real easy on the eyes. It looked like she was into taking care of herself.”
“Was she pretty? Cute? Stunning? Did she have a tiny nose or a Jimmy Durante schnoz? Was her hair red, blonde, or brown?”
“She had shoulder-length hair. It was dark brown – like the melted chocolate you dip marshmallows and fruit into. There was a little blond in it, too. The light in the bar made her hair and fancy pins sparkle and shimmer. I remember thinking the hairpins and clothes didn't much match the face or body – not just because of the age – but because she was kinda wholesome yet kinda sporty.”
He'd painted a pretty generic picture. Maybe a re-check of photos with Thomas in them would reveal a woman bearing Wayne's description. “You didn't catch a name, did you?”
He chuckled again. “Does 'Dewdrop' count?”
I cringed. “Oof, you're joking?”
“I am.” He chuckled again.
Whew. I wished him well, disconnected, and sauntered to the sofa.
“Anything interesting?” Rey asked, not looking like she cared one way or the other.
“Not yet.” I lay my cell phone on an armchair. “But at least phones are still functional.”
She sighed loudly. “Gawd, I want to go back to my Brentwood apartment – to a palm-treed courtyard with a decent pool, a bad script, and a fitness-loving smart-assed neighbor and his fat farty St. Bernard.”
Adwin and May-Lee sauntered in and took seats beside Rey. “I wouldn't mind being at the restaurant, working on a tray of treacle tarts or cherry-cashew mousse.”
Linda stretched her legs. “I wish I could be sitting on my lumpy couch, watching HBO, and eating an all-dressed veggie burger with crisp sweet potato fries and a big chunk of gooey carob cake.”
“And I wouldn't mind lounging in a pine-scented bubble bath in my teeny condo, with a good mystery book and a view of Mr. Black's deck … and two-hundred-and-fifty-pound Mr. Black doing his early morning tai-chi ritual in 80s Spandex wear,” I said.
Rey gave a thumb's up. “Maybe we should get him together with Trevor, the fitness-loving smart-assed neighbor. Sounds like a match made in heaven.”
“I'd like to be back at the shop,” May-Lee offered with a smile, “talking about the joys of owning a Shaker Ladder-Back chair or a Hepplewhite cabinet.”
Prunella entered. She looked like a supermarket customer who'd had a run-in with the produce manager over wrinkled peppers. “Perc should be down soon. He was trying to nap. The poor dear didn't get much sleep last night.”
The “poor dear” probably got more than most of us. He'd surely not been researching on the Internet or investigating corridors, alcoves and recesses during the early hours. Speaking of, “poor dear” entered as Beatrice wheeled in an antique oak dining trolley with cookies, dates and clementines, a fat jug of water, and two carafes, one of tea and one of coffee. Maybe the siblings' fight had taken its toll: he seemed jittery, tense, and unhappy. With a quick nod, he grabbed three mocha wafer cookies and slipped into a chair near Adwin, and we settled into silent snacking.
After several quick if not anxious jaunts here, there and everywhere by the various folks who'd congregated in the drawing room, Aunt Mat still hadn't shown her face.
“What do you suppose that woman is up to?” Prunella asked upon returning from upstairs, a plaid silk scarf in one hand.
Percival's smile was feeble and swift. “That woman is probably planning another trick. Or maybe she's detesting our presence and wants to stay away.”
“What's to detest? We're all lovable, endearing people,” she responded flippantly.
Adwin suggested she could be talking with the police.
Rey shook her head. “Lewis is in that rear guestroom making calls and issuing orders, and going through a third pot of coffee. He said he would head out later, if the weather shows any mercy. Gwynne is in a second-floor bedroom, working on cop stuff and wiping his brow a lot. He's looking ratty and washed-out.”
“Maybe your aunt's embarrassed as to what her get-together has resulted in and is staying the distance,” Linda suggested.
Rey took several gulps of water and wiped a hand across her lips like a football player who'd chugged a bottle of H2O after a scrimmage. “Maybe we'd better find out if she's okay.”
Linda straightened. “Where do we find her?”
“Her room would be a good place to start,” Prunella responded tersely, draping the scarf around her shoulders.
We looked at one another and filed upstairs.
Then filed down again when we discovered she wasn't there. Before anyone could suggest an alternative part of the huge house to check, Beatrice's anguished shout – a cross between a bull elephant cry and a foghorn alert – summoned the gang to Reginald Moone's library-study.
21
A Bop on the Head is Worth Two …
A glossy bright stream of carmine red, reminiscent of the strawberry jam I'd had the other morning, trickled down Aunt Mat's right temple. She was seated on the floor, looking pained and perplexed. A crumpled, nondescript white handkerchief lay alongside.
“Keeee-rist,” Percival whispered, his face growing paler than Adwin's.
Linda, Rey and I raced to her side.
“Prunella, call an ambulance and get Lewis.” I dropped to my knees and peere
d at the wound.
Percival ran an anxious hand through his hair. “Is she –”
“Of course I'm not, you ding-dong! You have eyes, don't you? I'm far from dead. Nor am I comatose or even badly injured. I do, however, have a headache that could fell an elk.” Aunt Mat scowled. “Don't call anyone, Prunella, I'll be fine.” She placed a hand on my shoulder and with Rey's assistance, pushed herself into a standing position.
As if fearing loud sounds or extreme movements might distress or harm the woman, Adwin and Prunella tiptoed over.
Linda peered at the half-inch wound. “You may need a couple stitches.”
She winced. “Do you think so?”
I picked up the handkerchief and dabbed at the blood. “What happened?”
“I got clunked on the head as I was reading up on – uh.” She went to point and frowned. “It's gone. I was looking at a book and it's not there anymore.”
“What's going on?”
We turned to the sheriff, but no one responded.
He muttered something about praising saints and hurried over. “Are you all right, Mathildah?”
She waved off his concern, but patted his ruddy, chapped hand as it gently grasped her shoulder.
Linda moved to the pedestal desk and scanned the top and underneath. “There aren't any books here.”
Rey walked past the desk and scrutinized the floor. “And there's nothing hard and heavy for head-whacking.”
If looks could kill, Rey'd have been dead three times over.
“I'm not imagining things, and I'm far from senseless,” our aunt huffed. She turned to Percival. “Would you get brandy, bandages, and gauze?”
“Of course, Matty.” He bowed his head like a loyal butler and hastened from the room.
I motioned Reginald's armchair. “Maybe you should sit.”
“Come on.” Lewis led her across the room and we waited until she was settled.
“You were saying you were looking at a book. What happened next?” Linda urged.
“And which book was it?” Rey. “Are you sure it's gone?”
Aunt Mat gave another withering look. “I was starting to read up on old-world poisons when I heard a soft footstep. Before I could turn, something heavy caught me upside the head and down I went. When I opened my eyes, there was a handkerchief on my face.”
I sniffed it and noticed a slight, sweetish scent. “It's been soaked with something … maybe a highly concentrated form of chloroform … or some sort of inhalant.”
Rey grabbed it and smelled it. “It certainly has an icky smell about it – like something that would keep you down and out.”
Lewis glowered and held out his hand.
She shrugged and slapped it onto his palm, then studied a row of books on the shelf. “I seem to remember one really old book being here. It was thick and had a black cover, and was all about apothecaries and treatments and poisons.”
“That's the one I was looking at,” Aunt Mat stated. “An Apothecary's Handbook … The Manual of … oh dear, I can't seem to recall. Anyway, it's not exactly a lightweight book you could tuck under an arm and run with.”
“But one you could slip into a hidden corridor with.” I studied the room. Surely this somber space held a secret or two. “You didn't see anything? You didn't get a glimpse of a foot as it stepped towards you? Or maybe a sleeve as an arm or hand struck out? Did you see anything that could identify your assailant?”
Aunt Mat shook her head and winced.
“I'm going to call this in, Mathildah –”
“Leave it, Augustus. For now, please?”
He scanned my aunt's set yet pleading expression and nodded. “We'll leave it for now, but we'll talk again latah. I'll bag this handkerchief for what it's worth, which is probably nothing. Then I'm going to find out about Mrs. Wheelah, who's gone into labah.”
He left as Percival hastened in with a fancy silver tray that supported two white linen napkins, a box of assorted bandages, a package of dressing and cloth tape, a bottle of Hennessy, and a lovely large crystal snifter that would make five goldfish happy to call home. I grabbed a napkin, poured Hennessy on it, and dabbed it against a wound that promised to turn into an ugly scab surrounded by interesting shades of blue and green over the coming days. Adwin poured two ounces into the snifter and passed it to my aunt.
“Thankfully the killer didn't do a very good job,” Rey said lightly, perching herself on the edge of the desk. “You'll be sporting a badge of courage like Linda and Prunella,”
“Our killer wasn't attempting to kill her,” I said. “This was merely a warning. If he – or she – wanted Aunt Mat dead, she'd be dead.”
“A warning?” Adwin asked, bemused. “Like get out of town? You're next? Give me all your money or else?”
“Maybe someone didn't appreciate Matty's joke,” Percival offered.
“Some 'joke',” Prunella murmured, picking at her sweater. “Matty, you are so in doggy doo with me right now.”
Linda struggled to contain laughter while Adwin and I attempted to remain straight-faced. Rey gazed at the Bird Lady as if she had brains the same size as her feathered friends.
“I'm not overly pleased, either,” Percival admitted quietly.
“You always enjoyed a good prank,” my aunt responded, pushing aside my hand as I started to swab the wound again.
“Pretending you're dead and having the lot of us spend too many hours together goes beyond 'good prank'.”
Aunt Mat laughed and stepped alongside Percival, giving him a solid slap to the back.
“So,” Linda asked, opening the door, “which one of us beaned Mathilda Moone?”
“Every last one of us all slipped out of the drawing room at one time or another during the last hour or so,” I advised.
“At least once,” Adwin emphasized. “Particularly in the last twenty or thirty minutes, with everyone having claimed a task that needed doing.”
We turned to my aunt, who extended her hands in answer to the unspoken question. “I could have been out five minutes, fifteen, or forty. I'm not wearing a watch and I hadn't been looking at the time. When I was actually hit is anyone's guess.”
“Then timing-wise, it could have been any one of us,” I avowed.
“Or someone still unknown.” Rey.
* * *
Before joining Rey and Prunella in the kitchen for a pot of organic green tea, a favorite of the Audubon lover, I peeked into Reginald's library-study. Thirty minutes ago we'd finished a hurried search of the immediate grounds. We'd not actually expected to have found something in terrain that had seen lots of ice and several feet, but we'd been hopeful. Besides, a bit of fresh (bracing) air didn't hurt, so we'd jokingly told ourselves. When we'd come across a men's thick black shawl one-hundred feet from the kitchen (Rey had gotten curious about the ice-layered composting units), we'd actually danced a jig – which had resulted in Rey's slim bum slamming the ground. Thankfully the howling and swearing had trailed into the windy, wintry afternoon.
No one claimed ownership of the shawl and Aunt Mat couldn't recollect one like it belonging to Reginald, so Lewis tucked it into a bag as we excitedly discussed the possibility that it belonged to the killer. The sheriff merely listened with an expression of strained patience.
“He probably lost it when he was hurrying off,” Prunella suggested.
“To where though?” Rey asked, perplexed. “A waiting car – covered with ice?”
“Maybe someone was keeping it running until he arrived,” Aunt Mat offered, fingering the bandage on her right temple.
“On a nearby road – covered with ice?” Rey asked skeptically.
“The shawl may have been placed there to have us assume the killer left,” Linda pointed out.
With a furrowed brow, Percival looked from her to his sister to my cousin. “Speaking of 'left', as in departing, here I go.” Off he sauntered.
One by one we followed, leaving the “Mystery of the Manly Shawl” for another time.
> Lewis was chatting with Aunt Mat as they sipped coffee from oversize mugs the color of bat's blood (okay, I didn't know the actual color, but it sounded good and spooky considering the circumstances and weather). May-Lee had retreated to her room to start on yet another book: Turn of the Screw. The others were missing in action. Something rumbled in the distance. A plow? Train? Thunder? What wacky weather. But then, what a wacky get-together.
My aunt was leaning into a bookshelf, staring into her mug as if it might offer explanations to everything that had recently transpired. Lewis was sitting behind the desk, dunking a shortbread cookie into the mug, his expression an odd twist between sad and amused, as if he wasn't sure whether he should weep profusely or laugh hysterically at the absurdity of it all. He'd showered, shaved, and changed into a casual navy-blue wool suit belonging to Reginald Moone. The clothes were a nearly perfect fit in length, but a little snug in width; Lewis had a good twenty pounds on my uncle. Still sporting his sheriff's hat, a fashion plate he was not. Three corpses, hovering and/or nattering media folk, a group of weird guests collected for a weird week in a fairly weird house, a bump to a head: what could possibly happen next his vigilant sea-green eyes appeared to be asking. I could mention that Fred the Ghost might breeze past in fine baritone form, but that might push the frustrated man over the edge.
Another officer was expected to arrive later, whenever he or she could commandeer the right vehicle to navigate the harsh elements. I wasn't sure which was more dangerous: driving on an ice-sheathed road with limited visibility or remaining in an old ghost-inhabited mansion with an unknown killer.
“Your tea's cold,” Prunella groused, motioning an elegant floral cup as I ambled to a daintily decorated table. A Spode tea set, a silver and gold platter with delicate sandwiches, a beige linen tablecloth with an aster motif and sunflower-yellow linen napkins, seemed out of place in the kitchen, but you had to give Prunella Sayers points for trying to add color and hominess to a dank, gray and tense afternoon.