Triple Threat Mysteries Collection

Chapter 13

Twelve rooms later, we were dusty, weary and leaning toward cranky. The lighting, for the most part, was dim at best and in some rooms we"d had to use flashlights when there were no lamps or bulbs. We"d found a huge hairy spider the size of a Smart car hanging from invisible wires in a sewing room and a shrieking skeleton in a vintage brass-bound trunk in a room that served as a hobby and/or art area, a plastic job with fake black roses in one hand and another note from kooky Aunt Mat in the other. Miss me? (That"s all she wrote.)

Percival swung around a wooden antique room divider and groaned, wiping a thick sticky cobweb from his face and lips. “I vote we stop. I"m ready to sit back and enjoy a nice cool martini.” He glanced at his Rolex, a Yacht-Master I was pretty sure, having done a piece the previous Christmas about outrageous gifts for the abundantly wealthy. “Dinner"s a good two hours away.”

“Ooh, a classic martini would be lovely. With three Hondroelia olives,” Prunella purred, grabbing her brother"s forearm as if it were a life preserver.

“Hell, I"d settle for Manzanillas.”

“That does sound frightfully good – with a twist of lemon and lime,” Mr. Jensen Peek-a-Boo Moone piped in, stepping from a small storage room he"d been investigating. He tossed a large rubbery lizard at our feet.

andI wasn"t a martini gal, but it sounded tempting. “Count me in. Adwin, you make a mean Cosmo. You"re in charge.”

“Okay, but we continue checking out the place after dinner,” Rey insisted, looking petulant.

Percival eyed her. You could see a disparaging comment poised on his taut lips. He caught his sister"s glance and read something in it, smiled wryly, and slapped my beau on the back, nearly sending the slim baker of sweets into the brass-bound trunk. “Make two pitchers each: classic and cozz-moh.”

and“b****y hell, make several,” Jensen ordered brusquely, stepping over Mr. Lizard. “I"ll meet you in the drawing room in half an hour.”

We watched him stroll into the hallway.

“My my, but someone"s testy,” Rey said, standing akimbo.

“It"s been a long day,” May-Lee reminded her, dabbing her pert Hollywood-sculpted nose with a small tissue.

“A grimy one at that,” Prunella agreed, wiping dust from arms reminiscent of heron legs. “I could do with a quick shower.”

“Not a bad idea,” Linda concurred, rubbing her face. “Even my eyes feel like they"re layered with dust.”

Clunk, thump. Groan. Clunk, thump. Clunk, thump. Eerie old-movie laugher echoed down the hallway.

Everyone glanced at one another and smiled feebly.

“Your aunt"s moved beyond plastic and rubber toys,” Linda said with a tired chuckle. “Now she"s making sure that spooky sounds entertain us. We"ll probably be listening to ghosts and ghouls all night.”

“I wonder what else she got Jensen to do,” Rey said, peeking behind a painting of a stone-faced woman sitting in a rocking chair on a verandah. Norman Rockwell it wasn"t. But Marcel Duchamp might have felt a kinship for the unconventional piece. “Who"d have thought Jensen could be the jokey sort?”

“She probably paid him well enough,” Percival said, hooking his sister"s arm. “I say we get back at him.”

My cousin scanned his face. Her lips curled upward slowly, reminding me of The Grinch before his heart expanded. “I like the way your mind works. Yes, let"s.”

We spent three quick minutes planning revenge before racing to our rooms to wash faces and/or take hurried showers, brush teeth, and grab sweaters or jackets. Within thirty minutes we"d regrouped downstairs, eager to sample the fruits of Adwin"s bartending skills.

Back in the room where Thomas Saturne had spent his last moments, no one sat on the sofa or spoke of him. Observers might have thought we were being respectful of the dead. In reality, we had other things to focus on – like icy-cold curl-your-toes martinis.

“Delicious.” Percival toasted Adwin.

“Even with common supermarket olives,” Prunella agreed, perched on an armrest by her brother"s side.

He slapped her thigh playfully. “Aren"t we the snob?”

She giggled.

“For a woman who has to be fifty, she sure acts half her age,” Adwin whispered in my ear as we sat on a long, hard divan near the double-door entrance.

“What"s wrong with that?” I asked.

“Nothing I guess. It just kind of rubs me the wrong way.” He shrugged, sipped thoughtfully, and shrugged again, looking like someone struggling with contrary thoughts. “Or maybe it"s her… She"s icky.”

“Icky?” I laughed.

“Icky,” he repeated with a grin, then gestured. “At least she"s not wearing that creepy Morticia Adamms bird necklace.”

“Oh come on. What"s wrong having a buzzard decorate cleavage?” I joked.

“So where"s the mood music?” Linda asked as she placed logs on a fire she"d managed to start with great effort. Obviously she"d never aspired to be a Girl Scout during her early years.

“Yeah, we only got two minutes worth.” Rey.

“If I know Matty,” Percival said with a wry smile, “we"ll be hearing two hours worth around one in the morning.”

hours“Where"s Jensen? His martini"s getting warm.” Linda brushed sooty hands on her jeans and reached for her glass. “Do you suppose he"s gearing up for another "fright"?”

“Let"s hope this one is more scary than the last.” Rey held out her martini glass for Adwin to top up. “It was kinda lame.”

“It worked,” Prunella commented, nodding at her brother.

“To a degree,” he said with a salty smile. “A very small one.”

May-Lee smirked and sipped. The attractive middle-aged woman seemed far from the shy sort; she was discerning and cautious, obviously selecting comments carefully lest she aggravate or insult someone. That was a smart thing – less chance of making enemies.

Beatrice"s familiar footfalls caught our attention. She stood in the doorway, looking as sour as always. This time, instead of sporting an old-world maid"s uniform in charcoal gray, she wore one of navy blue, and the starched apron was more lacy and formal, with a subtle trim of cornflowers. Shriveled liver-colored lips looked as if they"d kissed a pot of peach-colored lip gloss.

“Dinner is precisely one hour and forty minutes away.” With what was either an attempt at a smile or an expression suggesting tummy troubles, she left.

“Shall we place bets as to how the mushrooms will be served tonight?” Prunella asked.

“I"m in. I bet five dollars there"s some sort of mushroom stew.” Linda.

“Five we get soup.” Percival.

“Ten we see a casserole.” May-Lee.

“Ten for quiche,” Adwin piped in.

Prunella and May-Lee and I exchanged smiles, and I got the classic martini pitcher from the sideboard and started refilling glasses. A re-topping of the “cozz-moh” version followed.

Twenty minutes later, feeling galvanized if not smashed, we headed up softly lit stairs to change for dinner and see who"d win the mushroom bet.

Prunella stumbled to a stop. “I think I"ll go see where our London barrister is. I"d hate for him to have decided to stay in his room all night and miss our joke.”

Percival clasped her wrist. “We can play the joke anytime on the old stuck-up sour puss.”

“Don"t be rude, brother dear. Like us, he"s a guest,” she interrupted, pulling free. “We should all try to get along.”

“Now, where have I heard that line before?” Rey asked, bemused.

“Why don"t we all stop by his room?” Linda suggested.

Percival"s eyes gleamed. “Good idea. Let"s visit the "old boy".”

We stopped in front of Jensen"s door and Rey gave an urgent knock-knock-knock. Any louder and they"d have heard it on the next estate; any harder and the door would have given way.

“He must be power-napping,” Rey said, grabbing the doorknob when there was no answer.

Prunella clutched her hand. “If he is, it wouldn"t be right to wake him.”

Rey looked at her sharply, stunned or startled, and yanked back her hand. “Why not? He"d do the same.” She marched in like a bandleader leading a high-school ensemble down a football field during half-time.

Prunella sighed loudly, but followed Linda, who had followed Rey. Percival was right behind his sister of course, and Adwin trailed him – after rolling his eyes and giving a you-can"t-win look. I took up the rear with May-Lee.

“Ouch!”

“I can"t see a thing –”

“Turn on the frigging light –”

“I can"t find the damn light switch.”

“Stop standing in the f*****g way –”

“Oh for the love of –”

“Ou-ouch!”

A mandarin sheen veiled the room and showed an astounded-looking Adwin by an art-deco night-table lamp, Linda standing on Percival"s foot, Prunella on her butt on the hardwood floor, and Rey holding a hand to her reddened forehead. May-Lee and I were inches from the bed and each other: a near collision.

Rey snorted. “The joke"s on us … again.”

“He"s not here.” Prunella sounded and looked awed as she slowly got to her feet.

“He"ll probably show up in a closet or trunk or something,” Linda said, leaping back from the writer of obscure poetry and gardening articles as if he were an aphid-infested rosebush she"d crashed into.

Percival frowned and regarded his foot as if making sure it was still its original shape and size.

“He"s probably downstairs, waiting with one of those snide, smug smiles,” Rey suggested. “Or he"s getting decked out in a florescent ghost or padded monster suit, and is going to surprise us during dinner.”

I smiled at an image of Jensen decked out like Frankenstein"s monster. “For the record, ladies, I won"t be wearing pink this evening.”

Porter stood by a neon-blue four-oven cooker, stirring contents in a big Le Creuset pot. Two other ones simmered on back burners. He was dressed in chefwear: baggy striped pants and white short-sleeve shirt, a chefband, and black kitchen clogs. His hair was wild, cotton-candy dense, the color of butterscotch. Clairol? He had to be fifty-five if he was a day, so that was not his own color.

“More mushrooms for dinner?” I asked cheerily as I strolled across the cork flooring.

The portly cook turned and scanned my face with curiosity. “Marcel McIntyre – a respected local produce vendor – had a sale. I like them. Don"t you, miss?” His New England accent sounded a bit stiff, slightly off. Artificial maybe.

“I do. I"m Jill Jocasta Fonne, by the way.”

“Madam"s niece.” His voice was somewhat high-pitched, almost feminine. It didn"t suit the frame or face. It also held little emotion and was thin, like non-sodium vegetable broth; a hint of flavor, but not much depth.

My gaze fell to a silver pinky ring with etched geometric patterns on his left hand, which was holding a long wooden spoon and stirring a fragrant mixture. Tiffany maybe. I"d seen a similar ring a few months back when an assistant producer and I were picking out a gift for her boyfriend"s birthday.

I moved closer and peered in. Stew, it appeared. With lots of mushrooms, of course. “This smells great,” I said cheerily.

“It"s lamb stew. I"ll be freezing it.” The smile was as spare as his lips and he reached for a long thin plastic cutting board on which approximately three tablespoons of chopped herbs rested. “What brings you to my domain, Miss Fonne?”

“Jill, please. I"ve heard wonderful things about your cooking over the years from my aunt. I"ve liked what I"ve tried so far and thought it was time to officially meet you.” I leaned into a counter that supported two sets of rustic-red ceramic canisters and a mobile phone. “My boyfriend"s a pastry chef. He says you"re very good at what you do.” It was a bit of an exaggeration, but not a lie.

Another spare smile. He moved to a large French-door fridge and removed a fat ivory pitcher. “I don"t normally spend time with guests.”

“So I"ve heard, but I"m a niece, not a guest.”

This time he chuckled and the teddy-bear rumbles sounded cute. “I don"t spend time with them, either.”

I stepped up to a deep stainless-steel sink in front of a small steamed-up window, and grabbed a crisp Granny Smith apple. I tossed the green globe and caught it. “You"ve been here quite a while.”

He looked at me as if that went without saying, turned off the stove, and moved the pot with the stew to another burner.

“Did you know Thomas Saturne?”

“Only by name and sight.” He shuffled back to the fridge and removed butter and eggs.

“So you wouldn"t know if anyone hated him enough to kill him?”

Porter"s ruddy chipmunk cheeks performed a hamster shuffle (invisible nuts shifted from one facial pocket to the other and back again). A sizeable trident-shaped scar graced the lower left cheek. That injury must have hurt like crazy. “Are the police saying he was murdered?”

“No.” I smiled trimly. “Not yet.”

More hamster shuffles. Close-set ash-gray eyes stared into mine. “Do you think he was murdered?”

you“I"m a budding reporter,” I shrugged. “It"s my nature to be nosy and presume or assume the worst – until proven otherwise.”

He marched to the pantry like a soldier on a mission. “Anything else, Miss Fonne?” he asked when he returned with a fresh bag of sorghum flour and bottle of agave nectar. His visage conveyed nothing: no curiosity, annoyance, or joy. The man was hard to read.

I shook my head.

“The final touches to dinner require undivided attention. You don"t mind if I continue my work – in solitude?”

I shook my head again.

“Miss.” He bowed a cantaloupe-shaped head and ambled back to the counter with the cutting board while I moved on to the library-study, hoping to find an entertaining book to read later in bed.

I was scanning the inside jacket of Lee"s To Kill a Mockingbird, a book I"d not read since high school, when May-Lee Sonit entered.

To Kill a MockingbirdShe jumped upon seeing me. “You startled me!”

“Apparently,” I smiled, tucking the book under my arm.

She laughed anxiously and strolled to the shelves that housed fiction books. “I seem to be in a reading frame of mind and thought I"d grab two or three more novels.”

“Good books beat TV any day.”

“I agree. There are too many reality shows and not enough quality programming anymore.” She scanned two shelves and removed Hemingway"s For Whom the Bell Tolls and Twain"s Life on the Mississippi. “I never tire of either.”

For Whom the Bell TollsLife on the Mississippi“The books? Or the authors?”

She regarded me for several seconds. “You look like Mathilda. You have her cheeks and mouth.”

Instinctively I touched my face. “No one"s mentioned that before.”

“They"ve probably never seen the two of you together before.”

“Either have you.”

“But I have. Here you are and there she is.” She gestured three large photos in ornate silver frames on one of two antique oak carved pedestal tables. One was of Aunt Mat and Reginald by a willow tree in a vast hilly park during their early years. Gauging from the nearby flowering trees and colorful tulips, it was early spring. Another was of Reginald receiving an award or certificate from a man who bore a striking resemblance to Christopher Lloyd in Back to the Future. The third was a medium shot of my aunt in a forest-green sequined number at a black-tie gala, probably taken five or six years ago. “There"s definitely a resemblance.”

Back to the Future.“You two were close.”

“Very.” She glanced wistfully at the third photo. “We shared many enjoyable moments together.”

“You also shared a lot of interests.”

“We did, yes – antiques, art, theater, opera, viticulture and the resulting fine wines.” Another wistful glance.

“Did you know Thomas at all?”

She hugged the books to her chest. “We"d met a few times over the years, primarily here at the estate.” She smiled sadly. “Mat did have a flair for in-house parties and celebrations.”

“What did you think of the man?”

“He was stuffy, self-absorbed, anxious, preoccupied. He wasn"t overly friendly and he wasn"t one to open up to others and make them feel welcome or liked.” She shrugged. “I suppose I shouldn"t be so judgmental, considering the man"s deceased.”

“But that"s certainly the impression he gave,” I agreed. “Do you think someone could have disliked him enough to have killed him?”

Eyes the color of Red Rose tea widened. “The man"s death was an accident, wasn"t it? I know what your cousin has been claiming, and what"s been said, but I can"t believe his death was anything but an accident.”

I smiled fleetingly and sauntered to the door. “Of course it was an accident. It"s very easy to get caught up in Rey"s penchant for the melodramatic.”

She scanned my face, chuckled lightly, and moved into the hallway.

Forget Cousin Reynalda"s nonsense. I"d allowed myself to become absorbed in the dramatics. Of course Thomas" death was an accident. So I"d keep convincing myself.