Dead Cold Mystery Box Set 3

by Blake Banner

  I asked, “Father or son?”

  He shook his head. “Na’ye mind. Ah ken the way.”

  He stood watching us, waiting. We turned and continued up to our room.

  ELEVEN

  Somebody had lit the fire in our room. As we let ourselves in, the first flash of lightning lit up the gardens outside and showed a low, oppressive ceiling of dense, dark gray cloud. Less than a second later, the heavens split and exploded, the lights went out and a second flash illuminated the world with strange jerky, violet light. The flames in the fire wavered and the lights flickered and came back on.

  Dehan muttered something foul in Spanish, closed the door and made her way to the bathroom, stripping off her blouse.

  We showered and dressed with the storm tearing up the sky outside and claps of thunder threatening to smash down the roof, but there was no rain, only the prickling static of the humid, sultry air, and the trees bending and swaying through the window in the wild wind, caught occasionally in that eerie, stuttering light.

  I went from the bathroom back into the bedroom, pulled on my dress pants and my wing-collared shirt and poured myself a whisky. While I was trying to tie my bowtie in the mirror above the fire, I heard Dehan behind me. “If I’m Miss Scarlet, does that make you Colonel Mustard or Reverend Green?”

  I turned and told myself silently I must be the luckiest man on Earth. She did a slow turn for me. It was scarlet silk, low cut at the front and insanely low cut at the back. And then there was the slit, all the way up to her hip. She had her hair in a bun and a single pearl at her throat. I raised an eyebrow at her.

  “What kind of demon are you?” I said. “I forbid you to wear that outside this bedroom. In fact,” I added, stepping closer, “I forbid you to wear it in this bedroom. Take it off. Immediately…”

  She took hold of my bowtie and started to tie it. “Behave,” she said.

  “I intend to, very badly…”

  The sky ripped open again, diabolical dancing trees springing at us through the leaded panes against the electric blue and inky turmoil of the sky. And then there was the first patter of rain on the glass.

  Dehan glanced at the window, then frowned at me. “Listen. Is it the wind…?”

  Through the rattles, the moans and the groans, I heard another sound. At first it was like a bark, but then Dehan said, “Shouting,” and walked quickly to the door. She opened it and stepped out. I followed her down the dark corridor to the galleried landing. There, in the hall, was Cameron. He was standing, legs akimbo, pointing savagely in the direction of the study. The study, and whoever was in the doorway, were both out of sight, but the light from the open door was playing on Cameron’s face, and the expression was unmistakable rage. His voice was raised, but he was controlling it, and there didn’t seem to be anybody with him.

  “I’ve had enough!” he said. “I’ve had enough of being humiliated by your damned family! I’ll no take it anymore, d’you understand? I’ll no take it anymore! Yiz can all go to Hell! And take the bitch wuth you!” He took a step forward and his face twisted into a snarl. “But don’t think you’ll get away wuth ut! Believe me, you’ll no get away wuth thus! I’ll make you pay, so help me God! I will make you pay!”

  He turned and stormed across the hall, wrenched the door open and turned again, pointing savagely at whoever stood, silent and out of sight. “I will destroy you! So help me God, I will fucking destroy you!”

  And with that, he stepped out into the storm and slammed the door behind him.

  We returned to our room and, in silence, Dehan finished tying my bow and I pulled on my jacket. Then we went down the stairs in the uncertain, flickering light of the lamps. The study was closed when we got to the bottom, but from the drawing room we could hear voices. I opened the door and followed Dehan in.

  It was like a slightly edited version of the night before. Bee was seated on the sofa in turquoise Chinese silk, holding a gin and tonic, gazing at the fire with miniature flames dancing inside her glass. She glanced at us and gave a smile that was on the weary side of tired.

  Pam was seated in a chair facing us, wearing unremarkable black velvet and holding a glass of beer. When she saw Dehan, she avoided her eye and looked away at the burning logs. I was surprised to see Sally Cameron there after the scene we’d just witnessed in the hall. She was standing with her wild red hair gathered in a bow where she had been the night before, at the French windows, but now she was looking out at the storm through the rain-spattered panes.

  And tonight it was the major who was at the drinks salver, looking over his shoulder at us, holding a decanter and a balloon glass.

  But the main difference was that Charles Gordon Jr. was not there. His father was standing where Ian had been the night before, beside Sally. I watched his eyes travel over Dehan, then shift to me. They were not hard to read. They were hostile and hard.

  The major was the first to speak, with no trace left of his earlier outburst. “Ah! The honeymoon couple! What can I get you to drink? Mrs. Stone, what is your fancy?”

  He poured a generous measure of cognac and hurried across the floor to hand it to Gordon Sr. Then he stood grinning expectantly at Dehan.

  She winked at him. “You know what, Reggie? Why don’t I come over there and show you how I mix a martini?”

  He stammered something and she took his arm and led him away. I glanced at Gordon, who was still watching me. “Jr. not joining us tonight, Mr. Gordon?”

  “I neither know nor care, Mr. Stone. He is a huge disappointment to me, so I try to avoid him.”

  Bee sighed. “He had some business to attend to with the gardener chap, Armstrong. He said he’d join us a little later.”

  I frowned at her. “Bobby Armstrong?”

  She looked curious. “Yes, why?”

  “I saw Armstrong arrive, but that was almost an hour ago. I thought I heard him talking to Ian just ten minutes ago.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps he’s finished then. No doubt he’ll join us presently.”

  I glanced at Sally. She hadn’t turned around. Gordon was still watching me. Now he smiled. It wasn’t a pretty sight. “That detective’s mind never stops whirring, does it, Mr. Stone?”

  “Never.”

  He leered. “You should be careful. They say that can be a terrible strain on a marriage. It can drive a partner into a lover’s arms.”

  I smiled at him. Dehan approached with two martinis and handed me one. I took it and said, “There are lots of things that can do that, Gordon.” I sipped, winked at Dehan. “That’s perfect.” Then I turned back to Charles Sr., still smiling. “One of them is being an asshole.”

  Bee spluttered and sprayed gin and tonic over her blue dress, and Pam’s shoulders began to shake as she tried to suppress her laughter. Before he could answer, I went on.

  “I have been a homicide detective, in the Bronx, for over twenty-five years. You can imagine that during that time I have met and interrogated some very bad people, cruel and psychotic people. I have lost track of how many, but it must run into many hundreds. They all lied to me, and they all insulted me at one time or another. So I have grown over time to be insensitive to insults, however subtle, and damned good at knowing when people are lying to me.”

  The major stammered for a moment, standing behind Pam’s chair, then blurted out, “It must be fascinating work!”

  I made a ‘not so much’ face. “It’s not like the movies or the TV. Even the ones that aim to be realistic have to elaborate and glamorize things, because the vast majority of homicides are…” I thought about it for a moment and shook my head. “Tragically banal. Time of death is almost impossible to tell in the real world, DNA and fingerprints can take up to three months to get back from the lab, and,” I paused for effect, “ninety percent of murders are committed by a member of the family or a close friend. The motive is almost always sexual jealousy, anger or greed.” I gave a small, dry laugh. “Millions of people every year spend thousands of dollars protecting their
homes and their children against outsiders who might break in through the window or the back door, when statistically the real threat already lives in the house.”

  Right on cue, a gust of wind rattled the glass in the windows, a flash of lightning lit up the night and a clap of thunder smashed open the sky, then rolled away across the black ocean. When it had past, there was some nervous laughter and Bee said, “My goodness! With timing like that, you should be on the stage.”

  Sally turned away from the window to stare at me, and Gordon said, “Are you telling me that my father was probably killed by somebody in his own household?”

  Dehan went and stood beside the major, behind Pam’s chair. She answered for me.

  “You’d be in a better position to know that, Mr. Gordon. We’ve only been here twenty-four hours and his death was almost forty years ago. You and the inspector were convinced it wasn’t suicide, so you must have had somebody in mind.”

  The major swallowed hard, staring at his feet. Bee uncrossed her legs, then sighed and crossed them again, like she was losing patience with their limited range of positions. Pam was staring hard at her husband, and Sally went to the drinks salver and started mixing herself another drink.

  Gordon said, “Is it really only twenty-four hours? It seems so much longer.”

  Sally spoke suddenly in a loud voice: “Jealousy and greed?”

  Rain rattled on the windows. She dropped ice in her glass, then spilled in the gin. The tonic fizzed loudly. The whole room waited. She turned to face Gordon. “Who in this household could possibly have felt jealousy, or greed?” Then she turned and raised an eyebrow at me. “I think this murder, if it was murder, Mr. Stone, must fall in the ten percent of ‘other motives’. But most likely, you know, it was just suicide, like the police said. Is there not something to be said for leaving well enough alone?”

  I gave her my sweetest smile. “We’re just here on our honeymoon, Mrs. Cameron.”

  The dining room door opened and Brown stepped in. He surveyed the room and finally his eyes rested on Gordon Sr. “Should I serve dinner now, sir? Mr. Gordon Jr. is still in his study, it seems.”

  Pam turned in her chair to look at him. “Have you called him?”

  Brown came further into the room so she didn’t have to crane to see him. “Yes, madam. There is no answer.”

  Pam looked at Gordon. Gordon shrugged and sipped his drink. “I’m starving. Serve it now as far as I’m concerned.”

  There was a howl and a shriek and the wind seemed to grow louder. The drawing room door and the windows rattled. I frowned at Dehan.

  She said, “Was that the front door?”

  Bee stared at her. “Who on Earth would come in at this time of night, in this weather? Has Charles been out?” The howl subsided. Lightning lit up the gardens outside, momentarily silhouetting the trees. Thunder rolled, then split the sky. When it passed, we heard the savage hammering: once, twice, a third time. The major exclaimed, “What the devil…?”

  And then there was a shout, half hysterical from the hall.

  “Help! Help! Fer God’s sake! Somebody! Help!”

  Pam was on her feet and running, gasping, “Charles!” I was ahead of her, wrenching open the door, running across the checkerboard hall toward the study. The door was open, light streaming out. In it I saw, as I ran, where the latch had been smashed, ripped from the wood.

  I stopped dead in the portal, blocking the doorway, taking in the scene. Pam was clawing at my back, screaming at me to move, to let her through. I turned and enfolded her in my arms, pushing her back. “Major! Major! Take her to the drawing room. Lock her in if you have to. Gordon! Get out of here! Take your wife away from here! Now!”

  But Gordon just stood staring at me. The major was gaping. Pam was hysterical, thrashing, struggling to get to the room. I looked at Dehan. She slipped past in her scarlet dress and entered the study. I heard her snap, “Back up. Move away from the desk. Don’t touch anything.”

  Across the hall, I saw Bee and Sally come out of the drawing room door and stand staring at us. I grabbed Pam’s shoulders in my hands and shook her, staring into her face. She was still screaming, “What has happened? Let me get in there! It’s my son! For God’s sake! What’s happened? Let go of me!”

  I shook her again. “Pam! Pam, listen to me! You cannot go in there! Charles has been shot. He needs my help. The longer you keep screaming, the longer it is before I can help him. Do you want me to help him or do you want him to die?”

  Gordon Sr. went white and stepped toward me. I looked him in the eye and said, “Don’t even think about it, pal.”

  He stopped dead. Pam was goggling at me. I looked her in the eye again and said, “Do you want your son to die, Pam?”

  She shook her head. “Of course not!”

  “Then go with the major and your husband and wait in the drawing room while Detective Dehan and I do what we can to help him. Go! Now! Every second is vital!”

  I propelled her gently toward the major. He put his arm around her and I pointed at the drawing room door. “Go!”

  They withdrew reluctantly across the hall and into the drawing room. I turned and went into the study.

  It was an eerie sight, like a strange, physical manifestation of the scene I had visualized just a few hours before. Only there were some significant differences between the scene I had imagined and the scene I was looking at. For a start, it wasn’t Old Man Gordon who was sitting behind the desk in the large leather chair with his brains blown out. It was Charles Gordon Jr., his grandson.

  The left side of his head wasn’t missing, it was just spread out all over the Wilton carpet, part of his desk and most of his left shoulder—that part was the same—and like his grandfather, he was slumped forward slightly, gaping at a ledger on his desk, with his right arm hanging limp down by his side. On the floor, a couple of feet from his chair, was a revolver. It looked like an old Smith & Wesson .38, Military and Police model.

  Dehan was hunkered down looking at it, and behind her, staring wide-eyed and pale, was Bobby Armstrong.

  TWELVE

  The door had a big, muddy boot print just below the handle. I could see the mud was wet. Dehan was on her hands and knees, sniffing the muzzle of the revolver. Then she touched it gently with the back of her fingers. She stood and said to me, “You got your cell?”

  I nodded and pulled it from my pocket. There was no signal. I looked at Armstrong. “You got any signal?”

  He shook his head like I was crazy. “Och, there’s no signal here in a storm! An’ who’re you going t’call, anyhoo?”

  “There are no cops on the island?”

  “Ut’s a private island. What for, anyway? Nothin’ ever happens here!”

  “Just a murder every forty years.”

  “Ah didna kill him!”

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  Dehan said, “What’s 911 here?”

  “999.” I picked up the phone on the desk, listened and shook my head. “The line is dead.”

  Armstrong curled his lip. “What did yiz uxpect, in a storm like thus?”

  “What are you doing here, Armstrong? You said today you wouldn’t come past the gate. Yet this is the second time I’ve seen you in the house since then.”

  He snarled at me. “Ah don’t have to answer your feckin’ questions! Yer nay a cop here, see?”

  I jerked my head toward the door. “Get out. Go wait in the drawing room with the others.”

  He took a step toward me. “Ah don’t have to do what you feckin’ tell me, pal!”

  “This is a crime scene, pal! You’re disturbing the evidence. Right now my testimony and Detective Dehan’s is likely to clear you of suspicion. Disturb the scene or leave the house, and you go right to the top. Am I getting through to you, Armstrong?”

  He muttered something about “Feckin’ Yanks!” and marched across the hall to push through the door into the drawing room. I watched it close behind me and turned back to Dehan. I jerked my head
at the gun.

  She said, “It smells like it was fired recently, but the muzzle is cold, so it wasn’t that recent.”

  I nodded. “That figures.”

  She frowned. “It does?”

  “Mm-hm…” I pulled my cell from my pocket again and photographed the door and the muddy prints that led from it across the Wilton carpet to the side of the desk. “Their nice carpet is getting a lot of punishment. I wonder if they deliberately chose red.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me and pointed her finger at my chest like a gun. “How did you know?”

  I made a face like brain-ache and shook my head. “I didn’t. I told you. It was a feeling.” I shrugged. “They killed the old man, but none of the issues they had were resolved. It felt like they were all bubbling to the surface again.”

  She spread her hands. “But why now, almost forty years later?”

  I thought about it, chewing my lip. “Maybe for that very reason.”

  “What is that supposed to mean, Stone? You’re being cryptic. You know that makes me mad. And besides, this poor sap wasn’t even born when his grandfather was killed.”

  I smiled at her. “Miss Scarlet in the study with the dinosaur. This is not our case, Miss Scarlet. We have done the Scottish police the courtesy of preserving their crime scene, and now we must graciously withdraw.”

  She grunted and walked past me to the bay window, examining it carefully.

  “You know we are both ignoring the elephant in the room. We should call the doctor.”

  “You mean the one who was here a little earlier threatening to destroy people? The one whose wife is sleeping with the victim’s father? That doctor?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  I stared at the burning logs in the fire, thinking of Bobby standing in the hall, staring up at us on the stairs. He’d said he had business with Gordon. I’d asked him, “Father or son?”