Chapter 9
2331 Words
It was one a.m. when the body was finally removed and everyone"s statements had been taken by Sheriff Lewis and Deputy Gwynne. Porter had ended up making two urns of strong French roast coffee. Needless to say, with all the caffeine and commotion, it was unlikely anyone under Aunt Mat"s roof would be sleeping any time soon. Hubert had returned to his former stiff self while Beatrice had clumped around, serving coffee and cherry strudel that the guys with the body bag grabbed to go and the police ate with great relish, and whipped cream.
A couple of local eager-beaver reporters had arrived and hung around by the tall wrought-iron gate in the warmish misty early morning, hoping to get details. None of us felt like making their lives easier, although Rey volunteered to personally inform them about our no-comment position. Linda"s firm grip on my cousin"s slim wrist and my threatening glare quickly nipped that bigheaded intention in the bud.
“What a night,” Adwin muttered, dropping his glasses onto a nightstand and flopping belly-first onto an oak-paneled half-tester bed.
“What a day,” I exclaimed as I began changing into a pair of baby-blue flannel pajamas with a kitty-cat pattern, a birthday gift from the pastry chef whose face was now buried in a cotton quilt with an elk-and-deer motif; a hunter"s dream. “You know, I overheard the M.E. telling the sheriff that he"d never seen anything like it – what with the ugly rash and all that – and that at this juncture anything could have contributed to Thomas" death.”
dayanything“Anything as in murder maybe?” Eyes brown like crimini mushrooms squinted my way. “I was wondering what you"d overhear hanging on the old guy"s shirttails. I"m surprised you didn"t crush his feet. You were practically stepping on them.”
murder“You can"t work at a news station and not want to gather facts,” I sniffed, sitting before an intricately carved mirror that graced a lovely empire-style marble-top chest.
notIn truth, I"d never much wanted to follow in the footsteps of Diane Sawyer, Gigi Stone or Soledad O"Brien. News and current events, power struggles and politics were either too depressing or too overwhelming. I did, though, have a passion for research and investigating fads, food, and fashion – anything fun. Nice, tame, interesting stuff that didn"t want to make you question the egocentricity or stupidity of leaders and the fate of mankind. Thomas Saturne"s death, however, did pique my curiosity, maybe because he died here, right in front of us, an old-school Murder She Wrote mystery screaming to be solved.
Murder She WroteAdwin struggled upright. “You tell people the weather, and sometimes you discuss community or local events, but you never go beyond the happy-go-lucky stuff, even if I"ve told you I think you have it in you to be a brilliant investigative reporter.”
Someone was reading my mind. Scary.
He grabbed a pair of folded forest-green pajamas from the topmost corner of the bed. “Branch out, Jill. Move beyond demonstrating the virtues of taffy-making and modeling rainslickers.”
I grabbed a brush resembling a misshapen turtle, tempted to use it on him rather than my hair. Sleep-deprived b***h mode was setting in, something he had to be aware of and, for some strange reason, wasn"t avoiding. “Screw you,” I said, eyeing a tired reflection in the looking-glass mirror, feeling like Alice must have after being in the company of the Mad Hatter, March Hare and Dormouse.
“Now that you mention –”
“Forget it.”
I started to put fifty strokes through waves heavy with spray and gel needed to obtain a “natural” look, and walked to the window.
He shrugged and slipped into the sleepwear. “If it was poison, who do you suppose administered it? And why?”
“Good questions and ones we"re going to find answers to, my little crostata.” I peered into the darkness. The rain had passed and the moon was attempting to break through pitchy clouds. Slivers of light emanated from the cottage or shed or whatever it was that was situated four-hundred feet to the west of the mansion, and then it was gone. It was probably moonlight bouncing off a window or puddle. I turned and leaned into a wall.
Adwin"s tired expression suggested he was merely making conversation; he cared less.
I shrugged. “It may have been something as simple as an insect bite that killed him.”
“Huh?”
I shrugged again. “I noticed a bite under his left ear. Maybe you saw it? It was beside a very noticeable bird-shaped blotch. It could be he had a reaction to a spider bite or some winged creature that thirsted his way.”
My beau smirked. “Have you been reading those old Agatha Christie books of your mom"s again?”
That was neither here nor there. “Listen, butter boy, we"re stuck here until next Thursday. We may as well have fun.”
“When did detecting and murder – or potential murder – become fun?”
potentialI stared across the dimly lit guestroom and swallowed my irritability. “You enjoy challenges. Here"s a mother of one.”
He was about to speak when “Ha, ha, ha, you and me, Little brown jug, don"t I love thee!” resounded outside the thick oak door. The voice had an Earl Jones quality: deep, rich and sensuous.
Ha, ha, ha, you and me, Little brown jug, don"t I love thee“By jove, that must be dear Aunty Mat"s ghost-host, Fred.” I gave my best English accent (a Liverpudlian, Manchesterian and Yorkshirish mishmash) and stood column straight, as wide awake as if I"d ingested a half-pound bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans. “Let"s greet the old boy.” I scampered across the room.
“I guess we were destined to meet him sooner or later.” Adwin looked none too pleased as I reached for a brass rosette doorknob. “What"s the difference between a ghost and a spirit; do you know?”
“I"ve heard it explained that one passes into the After Life and can come and go at will, while the other is trapped here for one reason or purpose or another.” I took a deep breath and opened the door. “But in both cases, they"re pretty dead.”
The long corridor was lighted softly by four incandescent ceramic wall sconces. There was nothing to be seen except a worn runner, two cherry-finish hallway tables, a half dozen countryscapes, and a large suit of armor at the far end by a tall domed window. (The defensive covering might have belonged to a medieval knight as easily as to the host of a costume party for all anyone in the group could tell earlier that evening, but it had made for a few good zingers and chuckles.)
“Fred, you there?” I called.
Adwin perched his chin on top of my head. “Are you nuts?”
“You"re not afraid of a singing ghost, are you?”
“Don"t be silly. I meant: are you nuts waking up everyone?”
“Do you think we"re the only ones who can hear him?”
“I – shoot. Did you see that?” It sounded as if Adwin had dropped his jaw – to the root cellar.
“If you did, I did.”
“Hey, what"s going on?” Linda stepped into the hallway from the opposite room. And I thought my kitty cats were cute. Coupled with clown-sized fuzzy neon-yellow slippers, the dancing perky-eared raccoons on her knee-length nightgown beat my kitties by a mile. She held a tiny flashlight.
“Is that a light for Minnie Mouse or a weapon for Mickey?” I smirked.
“Prunella says the electricity in this place can go out like that.” She filliped.
“Of course it can. Why wouldn"t it? I bet lightning and thunder streak through the night on cue, too.” Adwin peered down the corridor with a frown. “Did you see anything?”
“Like a ghost?” she grinned.
“Like Fred.”
“I thought I heard someone singing.”
“What about Rey?” I asked. “Did she hear someone, too?”
“She"s out. She won"t wake before ten tomorrow. That last rye and ginger knocked her off her feet.”
“I"m surprised she wasn"t knocked off earlier.”
Linda and Adwin"s expressions rested somewhere between amused and aghast.
“You know what I mean – who"s that?”
We squinted at a shadow near the dormant knight and Linda called out, “Is that you Percival?”
“Ssh, you"ll wake the dead,” I warned.
Again the expressions.
Wearing a cinnamon-brown cashmere robe over cream flannel pajamas, Percival strolled toward us as if engaging in a Sunday constitutional. “It seems that only a handful of us are actually fortunate enough to sleep tonight.”
“Did you hear anything?” Linda asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing except a dog and an owl, and a train. I"m feeling a bit chilled and am going to make myself a pot of hot cocoa. Is anyone interested in joining me?”
Adwin shook his head while Linda and I nodded.
Talk over a pot of hot cocoa had to bring a few things to light… Didn"t it?
Tired and cocoa-saturated, the three of us plodded back to our rooms. No Fred the Ghost on the shadowy stairwells or hallways at 2:30 a.m. There was Fred the Feline, however. Even in the dimness, I could see his big furry head peeking from beneath the blankets as he rested alongside my beau"s chest. What a cute couple. I turned on an overhanging cast-iron lighting fixture that could have graced a nineteenth-century inventor"s workroom and grabbed a Nikon camera I"d tucked into a drawer. Click, click. Click, click.
Adwin shifted and opened one eye, groaned, and opened the other. Fred looked annoyed and crawled deep under the blankets, prompting a giggle from his bedside partner. Adwin shrugged. “Can I help it if I"m ticklish?” He rubbed his disheveled hair, looking like the lucky kid at the science center who got to rub a balloon in the pursuit of hair-raising knowledge. “How"d the hot-chocolate party go? Did you learn anything of interest?”
hair-raisingI dropped beside the lump at the foot of the bed. It shifted, but stayed put. I could love cats, really I could, if it wasn"t for the allergy. In their presence too long and I looked like I"d been on a three-day bender. Red-rimmed eyes and blotchy skin didn"t do much on the pretty scale. Nor did raucous sneezing and a runny nose.
“I learned that Linda loves white chocolate and whipped cream, strawberries and cherries, reading and writing, anything Bollywood, and fringe theater. Lager is her choice of drink and she leans toward jazz. Percival is into obscure poetry and landscaping, writes gardening articles as well as said obscure poetry, and is fifty-one but doesn"t feel a day over forty-one. He likes Turkish Delight, cookies, and savory scones.” I patted the lump. “According to the radio that was on in the background, the temperature is dropping rapidly and we could see some major snowfall come early aft.”
Adwin pulled himself into a seated position and stretched willowy arms. “I was referring to Thomas Saturne.”
“Linda and I are inclined more than not to believe he was murdered. Percival prefers to believe he died of a natural or accidental cause.”
“Everyone seems so calm about this death.” He smiled wryly. “You"re approaching it like you"re sitting down to watch and chat about the tasty tidbits Entertainment Tonight has to offer.”
Entertainment TonightI smiled wryly in return. “Percival thought Thomas was weird. So did Linda.”
“Being weird doesn"t mean you"re murder material.”
I rubbed my itchy nose. Oh-oh. “Both of them noticed the mark.”
“The bug bite?” He frowned. “How could anyone notice it among that mess of red?”
“The blotches were scarlet and this teensy weensy mark was a deep ruby color. Also, there was a miniscule hint of blood. Linda noticed it when Gwynne stepped over to reprimand that cute young cop who"d scarfed the last piece of strudel.”
One eyebrow arched.
“Linda"s a screenwriter"s assistant and wannabe mystery writer. She"s never viewed a real murdered body up close. She wanted details.”
Adwin shook his head. “Great, I"m stuck with a bunch of Nancy Drews for the week.”
“Percival may take umbrage with that.”
“Okay, Nancy Drews and one Hardy Boy.” He watched Fred jump from the bed and pad across the room. “Did either one of them mention seeing … you know?”
oneI stood and disrobed. Sleep was but seconds away. “The stories didn"t change during the liquid sugar rush. Linda hadn"t seen what we saw and Percival hadn"t heard or seen anything out of the ordinary.” I slipped under the covers.
“Maybe we imagined seeing … you know.”
“We saw a ghost, honey bun. A tall translucent man with a hint of a silvery mist twirling around his, uh, spirit-ness. He was dressed in clothes of yesteryear and happily ambling down the corridor.” My heavy head sank into a wonderfully soft pillow.
ghost“It could have been a trick. You know, a hologram or something.”
“It could have been, but it wasn"t.” Like the old War song, I began “slippin into darkness”.
- Writer
