The Connecticut Corpse Caper

2 Walk this Way

2

Walk this WayThe heavy brass knocker resounded like a tom tom and thump-thump-thump-thump echoed throughout the huge dwelling as if the sounds had been amplified by a boom-box loudspeaker.

A manservant wearing an Edwardian butler’s outfit opened the door. His face was as weathered as the shrubs and trees, and his hands, although obscured by white cotton gloves, seemed slender and half the size they should be. Maybe they’d shrunk in the wash (the hands, not the gloves).

He began to bow. If the old geezer bowed too low, he’d topple like a windblown sapling. “Madam.”

Was this part of the act? Okay, I’d bite. “Sir, I’m Jill Jocasta Fonne, Mathilda Reine Moone’s niece.”

“You’re late.” Eyes, wafer-flat and vulture-dark, stared long and hard but his face, like his tone, revealed no expression. He may as well have said, “My but the weather is frightfully pleasant for this time of year.”

I smiled and offered an easy shrug. “I took a left instead of a right back at-”

“Enter.” He gestured the foyer and a grand one it was -- full of black-veined marble and gilt, and one gawd-awful statue of a nondescript Greek god situated between two large rectangular mirrors trimmed with aureate roses. Or maybe he was Roman. Either way, he was ugly. He didn’t even have a nice-

“Leave your bags by the mirrors and your keys on the balustrade. I’ll see that your car is taken care of. Walk this way.”

I was tempted to re-enact a classic comedy scene and walk as he did: with stooped shoulders and a pronounced limp.

We entered a large drawing room or salon that could have entertained the characters of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The predominant colors were crimson, chestnut and old gold, the heavy fabrics velvet and damask. Victorian- and Edwardian-influenced furniture was situated on and around an immense Persian rug that covered three-quarters of a dark-stained hardwood floor. It smelled faintly of sandalwood, fresh and warm, not as heavy as incense, but subtle like good-quality men’s cologne. Over an exquisitely carved fireplace of Citizen Kane proportions hung the largest portrait I’d ever seen: the likenesses of Mathilda and Reginald Moone, painted decades ago, were flawless.

She appeared happy. Ecstatic actually. And young. No more than thirty. A choker comprised of sizeable diamonds and sapphires decorated a long delicate neck. Dressed in an azure-blue silk crepe off-the-shoulder gown and long white gloves, she had the face and features of a Bolshoi ballerina: thin and exaggerated, and exotic. Her hair was much like I’d seen it in a photo she’d posted on f*******: three years back -- wheat-blonde and thick -- but instead of curling around her shoulders as it had in recent years, it was worn à la Jane Mansfield in Too Hot to Handle.

Reginald looked tense. Either he disliked posing or he wasn’t comfortable in the elegant tux and top hat. Possibly both. The man was handsome in a Clark Gable sort of way (he had the same ears), but had unusually dark eyes. Mine had been described as loon black, but his were as dark and cavernous as chasms. It seemed as if you could be sucked so far into them, you’d never escape. At the base of a Grecian nose was a d**k Dastardly mustache (long and pencil-thin), black like the full head of wavy hair that crowned a spherical face. The only word that came to mind: eerie. I’d never met or talked to the man who’d died when I was twenty-three. Mom and her sisters rarely mentioned him and Mom never had had any photos of him or I’d have remembered that face. The only thing I knew about him was that he’d dealt in antiquities.

“Per your aunt’s wishes, make yourself at home. Beatrice, our maid, will be in shortly.”

I turned to find the butler limping hurriedly from sight.

Adwin rose from a long sofa that looked as if it had been newly lined with chestnut-colored velvet. He’d dressed up for the occasion, which in this case meant black cotton pants instead of jeans and a pecan-brown, cable-stitch sweater instead of a hoodie. Removing square-shaped Nike glasses, he strode forward, grabbed me around the waist and brushed thin lips against my forehead. He wasn’t the most romantic fellow -- except on Valentine’s Day when he baked the most awesome gifts -- but he was mine. “How’s my little butter tart-"

“It’s Jilly. Always was a weath-ther girl, she always knows what’s goin’ on. Always was a weath-ther girl.” Cousin Reynalda sang the introduction or greeting, or whatever the hell it was, to Tori Amos’ “Cornflake Girl”. I was pretty sure I’d never listen to that song the same way again.

Grinning, drink in hand, the lanky woman stood alongside an early nineteenth-century mahogany sideboard that also served as bar. At five-foot-eleven she was tall to begin with, but with those frightfully thin four-inch heels she towered above everyone in the room. The rocks glass held rye and ginger, no doubt; she’d had a thing for that combination since the day she’d first discovered nightclubs and lounges. Over the last half decade, Rey had lost twenty pounds and a hooked nose, and instead of limp sand-colored hair lining her back, she wore short spiky platinum hair. Gone were thick glasses she’d sported since the age of eight and grass-green eyes sparkled in place of ash-gray ones. Funny, I’d never noticed how globe-round they were. The woman looked great, a prime example that people could indeed change, at least physically. I wasn’t so sure the prickly personality had improved.

Best friend Linda Royale wore designer jeans identical to Rey’s and a tight gooseberry-hued wool sweater that showed off well-toned arms, but didn’t do much for cream-toned skin or intriguing latte-colored, almond-shaped eyes. Standing beside a tall old-fashioned lamp, her wavy chin-length mocha hair was partially covered by a beaded lampshade of gold velveteen. She didn’t appear drunk enough to want to do a lampshade dance, so maybe she was attempting to fade into the background. She looked somewhat ill at ease, as if she wasn’t sure she should be here. Or perhaps she wasn’t looking forward to facing singing ghosts and surly servants over the next few days. Or maybe she didn’t care for the drink she’d been sipping. It looked like thick red goo, Nosferatu’s liquid pleasure. Nothing like setting a mood. Dinner would probably consist of ghost-shaped pasta and eyeball pralines.

“What can I get you?” Adwin asked, moving to the sideboard.

I gestured Linda’s port. “Is that O-positive or AB-negative?”

“B+.” Linda’s button lips formed a droll smile. “Kind of like the port itself. A nice little number, not quite A+ perfect, yet still too sweet for this lover of lager.”

I laughed, glad to see Linda had developed a sense of humor; you had to have one serving as sidekick to Reynalda Fonne-Werde.

A short-haired black cat took me by surprise when it rubbed its long corpulent body along my leg and then flopped on my foot. Wow-ow. This fuzzy fellow was no featherweight. “Who are you?”

“Fred,” my cousin responded on the feline’s behalf. “He’s the official owner of the house now.”

“Not Fred as in ‘Fred the Ghost’?”

“Fred as in Fred Frou-Frou Fat Cat.” She arched heavily penciled eyebrows a couple of times.

“How Aunt Mat.” I gazed from the cat to her and back again. “Hey Fat Cat, you’re crushing my toes.”

Adwin, white knight and lover of all things fuzzy and non-human, came to the rescue; Fred found a new resting spot on a black-and-gold velveteen ottoman.

Percival and Prunella Sayers stood and everyone started talking excitedly. I exchanged an amused glance with Adwin as I accepted a glass of Shiraz, my preferred drink, and sat on the edge of a Victorian mahogany-framed chaise longue that might have graced a Windsor Castle hallway back when.

My beau settled alongside me and draped a slim arm around my shoulders. I settled back, content to watch the oddball collection before us. Observing people and imagining what was running through minds was something I enjoyed doing, and this bunch was certainly tweaking my imagination. No question, this was going to be an interesting if not enlightening event.