Triple Threat Mysteries Collection

Chapter 10

A few minutes before 8:00 a.m., I entered a kumquat-colored mini gym with the intention of spending an hour losing calories and gaining energy. The exercise room was on the second floor on the west side, away from guest rooms and main foot traffic. A tall unadorned narrow door leading into it could easily have served as an entrance to a storeroom for anyone knew.

“Oh.” I"d not expected company.

“Miss Fonne,” Jensen Q. Moone greeted me with a bow of the head. Dressed in navy-blue Nike nylon pants and a well-pressed ash-gray sweatshirt promoting the Hawaiian Islands, he was seated on a sleek g-Force RT Lemond stationary bike, cycling at a slow but steady pace. A thin layer of sweat lined a high smooth brow. Forbes was on his lap.

ForbesI stepped onto a Smooth elliptical trainer. “Have you been here long?”

He glanced at a Swiss Army watch. “About forty minutes. I did weight training,” he motioned the Boflex home gym machine, “and now I"m doing cardio. Another fifteen minutes and I"ll have a pot of Earl Gray. And prior to lunch, I"ll partake of the hot tub and sauna.”

“Aunt Mat has a hot tub and sauna?”

He pointed down, to the north. “They"re off the deck, accessible through that huge oak door to the left of the den.”

“She has a deck?” Why was that so surprising?

He laughed. “Not in the traditional sense. It"s more of an elaborate patio, with a built-in barbecue and "picnic" area which, in summer, is graced with clemitis, English ivy, and bougainvillea. The in-ground hot tub is set up like a pergola – the sunlight can stream through the top during good weather, but when it"s frightfully wretched out, the "roof" can also be closed. It"s rather an elaborate structure.”

And a costly one from the sounds of it. But it did sound welcoming. “Maybe I"ll partake of the hot tub, too.”

He offered a quick smile, flipped a page in the magazine, then glanced up. “I"m sorry about your aunt.”

I sensed he genuinely meant that and gratitude was reflected in my expression. “She"d lived a very good life.”

“She had indeed.” He seemed to weigh the worth of offering the next comment. “I hear people truly believe Thomas Saturne may have been murdered.”

I smiled wryly and upped the resistance level on the elliptical. The current one wouldn"t have been challenging to a seventy-year-old with bursitis. “I believe Cousin Reynalda actually set that rumor in motion last night, but I thought people had opted to forget it.”

He smiled as well. “She reminded us when she went around knocking up people to inquire about migraine-strength pain killers. It"s more than a "rumor" now.”

“What do you think?”

“You"re very inquisitive, aren"t you?” He eyed me curiously. “Are you hoping to help your cousin prove the "rumor" is actually fact?”

I chuckled. “Let"s say it"s the investigative reporter in me.”

He smirked. “I thought you were a weathergirl?”

“Meteorologist,” I corrected automatically, then smiled. “With an investigative reporter buried deep within.”

“I must confess, I am curious about the man"s unusual passing.” His fleshy lips thinned. “The man wasn"t overly likeable, and he did ruffle feathers.”

“Prunella"s?” I grinned. “Or her flying friends"?”

He laughed heartily. “I couldn"t speak for our Audubon enthusiast, but I understand he"d angered and irritated several clients and associates. I"d hardly imagine one of them, however, would steal onto Mathilda"s estate and do away with the man.”

“Never say never,” I murmured.

“Beg pardon?”

I met his puzzled gaze. “It"s unlikely, but not impossible.”

His expression darkened. “We"ll leave it to the police to determine.”

“When was the last time you saw Aunt Mat?”

He hesitated, then smiled. “That would have been about four months ago, just three days before she passed, at an after-theater event. We"d both attended the opening of a local production: Arsenic and Old Lace.”

Arsenic and Old Lace“Did you see Aunt Mat often?”

“Yes, fairly regularly. I fly here four or five times a year for business and pleasure.”

“I"d enjoy hearing about some of your visits.”

“I"d enjoy recounting a few,” he responded amiably.

I listened with great interest as he detailed entertaining accounts of silly, fun-filled Mathilda Moone affairs.

I acknowledged Percival Sayers" entrance into the exercise room with a nod. “Who"d have imagined this place would prove so popular?”

Jensen had finished his exercise regime five minutes ago. Prunella had popped in, intending to use the Bodyguard T200 treadmill, but said she"d return. “Nothing against you, Jill,” she"d stated with a fleeting smile, “but I like working out in complete solitude. I"ll come back later in the evening.”

“It appears we"re all fitness freaks.” He removed a thick white bath towel with gold brocade from his shoulders and laid it on a Bowflex bench.

Why didn"t it surprise me to see him sporting a pressed, blinding white T-shirt tucked into long, baggy cotton shorts and tall, thick knee socks? It wasn"t a flattering look on any man of any age, but when knobby, scarred knees entered the equation – yow.

“But your sister prefers exercising in "complete solitude".”

“She"s funny that way.” He smirked. “I believe she has a phobia about people seeing her sweat.” He climbed onto the bike Jensen had recently occupied and keyed a program. “You"re not lounging about downstairs, discussing homicide theories with your cousin and friend?”

“We"ve exhausted all possibilities. For now.”

He laughed. “Prunella likes the murder-by-blowgun theory.”

“Blowgun?”

“Didn"t you suggest last night – at least a couple of times – he was poisoned? And that there was something on his neck – a tiny hole or something?”

“Linda did the suggesting, based on my cousin"s creative speculation. But yes, there was an odd dot, a puncture mark. It could have been made by a dart or tiny shaft, or something similar … like a blowgun.”

“Which is a weapon that would lend itself to poison – a substance like curare. It"s like something in a plot from an old black-and-white movie: very classic and very 40s. I love it. Prunella thinks it"s hilarious. We could use the entertainment.” He laughed vigorously. “You ladies do make for great arguments and the dramatic.”

I stepped off the elliptical and moved to the Bowflex where I started doing lateral shoulder raises. “What if it"s not entertainment? What if he truly was murdered?”

notwas“As we discussed last night,” he responded casually, “I don"t believe it was murder. I haven"t changed my mind. That mark, if it was a puncture, could have been the result of something completely innocuous.”

I“But what if it"s true,” I persisted, “that he was killed?”

wasPercival frowned and stared at the bike monitor. “Then we have a killer amongst us, and we"d better pray that he doesn"t kill again.” He straightened and smiled. “Let"s retreat from such forbidding fantasies, shall we?”

I nodded and did several biceps curls before speaking again. “What did you know about the man, besides his leaning toward the dispassionate?”

“I only met him perhaps four times during the last decade at one Matty Moone affair or another, and only briefly at that. We exchanged a few words about work, weather, that sort of inoffensive, mild type of thing. He wasn"t very likeable or warm. He didn"t inspire you to delve into lengthy discussions.”

I wondered what had made the Manhattan lawyer tick. Where had the somberness, the moodiness, stemmed from? Had he hated life, people, himself? “Was your sister of the same mind?”

“Possibly. I can"t recall that Thomas Saturne had ever been a topic of conversation between us, but we do tend to view people in the same light.” One lean shoulder presented a lame shrug. “She had known him better than I. They sat on the same board for several years. How much actual interaction they had, I"ve no idea.”

“He must have made for fascinating meetings.”

Percival laughed and altered his cycling program.

The telepathy that had started at dinner the night before continued in the morning and weary faces showed up for a late breakfast at 9:55 a.m. in another dining room used for casual meals. The cozy room was smaller, more plain and simple, than the one of the night previous. Butter-yellow walls were accentuated by egg-white crown molding along the ceiling, and lace valances and tiers with a rose design graced three square windows. There were no decorations save for a house cuckoo clock on the south wall that looked very Black Forest with its moving waitress and coachman and Bavarian Biergarten. I noted it was 10:00 but no cuckoo informed us so.

We were seated at a long rectangular table with a white linen tablecloth and butter-yellow napkins. The china was white: Wedgwood (I had to look). Care to guess what Porter served? Yup, mushroom omelets. Mind you, there was an alternative option: mushroom frittatas. I requested jasmine tea and rye toast with buckwheat honey and got orange pekoe and wheat toast with strawberry jam – the kind with pectin, that substance sometimes described as any group of water-soluble colloidal carbohydrates (I learned that during a shoot at a jam manufacturing plant). How tasty sounding was that? As tasty as over-flavored, brightly-colored jam.

Speaking of tasty – as in tasty bit of information – ten quick minutes of Internet research after the exercise session had garnered a condensed history of the Moone family. They"d resided in Connecticut for several generations after having emigrated from Brighton England. Money had never been an issue. It seemed Travers “Simian Eared” Moone had been highly successful either as a celebrated privateer or fearsome pirate, depending on which story was to be believed. (No, he wasn"t referred to as “Simian Eared” in anything I"d read and seen, but with those ears the nickname sprung quickly to mind.)

On a whim I"d texted Ger, who"d responded quickly with a phone call. Maybe he"d truly been ill. Or maybe he wanted to ensure I didn"t think he was playing hooky. Either way, I suspected I was going to owe big time.

“You want me to find out about your resident spook Fred, huh?”

“Do you think you can do it, Gerben?” He"d been named after a long-time dead-ago Dutch uncle. “Kher-bunn” was the actual pronunciation he"d told me after three margaritas at a permanent bon-voyage party for the last station GM, who thought she was simply headed for two weeks of play and pleasure in Antigua, and wasn"t it nice of everyone to see her off?

“Of course I can, but it"ll cost you.”

I could see the guy flashing a dazzling white buffoonish grin at everyone in the vicinity before swinging sneakered feet onto a desk and slurping a can of club soda. Three of the station"s notorious gossipmongers claimed he"d been kicked in the head with size twelve cleats. Two sometimes gossipmongers claimed he"d gotten whacked with a Titleist wedge. My take? Margarita Boy had drunk one too many of those tart tequila cocktails and sucked on one too many cheap cigars.

“Doesn"t it always?”

“Hey, babe, that hurts.”

I bit my tongue, offered a chuckle that probably sounded as fake as it felt, and ran down what I was looking for. It probably wasn"t the wisest thing to do – asking Ger to conduct actual research – but maybe it wouldn"t hurt. He"d have a chance to use some brain cells (if there were any left).

“You"re looking wide awake and ready to tackle the day,” Percival commented across the table before forking fluffy eggs between his lips.

“The workout equaled five espressos,” I said cheerfully, stirring milk into a mug with a character resembling Count Chocula on it and taking a surreptitious glance around to see if any eyes were peering merrily around a corner or through a window.

“Gawd, you"re actually eating,” Rey groused, semi-staggering into the room. She was dressed in black jeans, black Roslynn UGGs (same as mine), and a cashmere fern-green turtleneck that would have offset her eyes quite nicely if they hadn"t been bloodshot.

“The frittatas are delicious.” Prunella beckoned my cousin to the chair beside her.

“Ugh. I"ll just have some java.” She plunked herself down and gazed from one face to another, as if attempting to recollect who each one belonged to and why they were here at the table. She gulped back Linda"s coffee, sighed deeply, and nearly smiled. “Any more news on our weird lawyer?”

“Our weird dead lawyer,” Linda said, eyeing her empty cup with a frown.

dead“There hasn"t been any word,” Jensen responded, spreading something resembling mushroom paté on a thick slice of white bread. I"d half expected him to request Marmite.

Rey"s brow puckered and she watched Beatrice carry in a bone china coffeepot. “Are we still expected to stay, considering?”

“Yes Miss Fonne-Werde. "Regardless of what may occur", so our mistress stipulated.” The maid offered a near smile. What an interesting if not unnerving voice she had: a hint of an Ingrid Bergman accent coupled with a Humphrey Bogart timber. The maid refilled more cups and did her lumbering thing across the room, leaving a whisper of rosewater behind.

“Let"s hope no one else suffers a fatal accident,” Jensen said with a dry smile.

“What "accident"? The man was murdered!” Rey was being melodramatic again.

“Come now, young lady –”

“He was murdered!”

Jensen"s haunted look was replaced by one of amusement.

“Did anyone hear any singing last night?” Adwin asked, attempting to navigate the conversation into less choppy waters.

“I did, I think.” Rey frowned and peered into her cup as if its steaming contents would confirm her uncertainty. “A happy-go-lucky kind of song. Remember, Linda? You were coming out of the washroom when I mentioned it?”

Hadn"t Linda said Rey was passed out? “Was that before or after you complained about the spins and hung your head out the window?” she smirked.

“Fun-nny gir-rl.”

“Now that you mention it, I remember thinking someone had the radio on too loud, but it wasn"t on for long, so I turned my attention elsewhere.” Prunella looked at her brother. “Perc, do you recall? You"d been staring out the window and talked about hot cocoa.”

Brother and sister shared a bedroom? How gruesome.

“I didn"t hear anything,” the brother responded, the barest crinkling of his forehead suggesting he was perturbed.

What was he staring at out the window? Did it matter?

“What"s on the agenda for today?” Prunella asked, pushing her empty plate forward, and starting to finger the bird pendant. “Surely we aren"t expected to sit and eat all day?”

“We"re not allowed to leave the estate, but that doesn"t mean we can"t stroll through it. It wouldn"t hurt to get fresh air while the weather"s still decent.” I replied lightheartedly. I motioned the necklace. “That"s most interesting. Is it … a vulture?”

“Why yes. How perceptive,” she twittered.

“It looks old.”

“It"s eighteenth-century and belonged to Detlef Huhnfuss, a very wealthy and rather loopy baron who"d been known for elaborate week-long soirees,” Percival explained. “We were quite fortunate to have found it – at a decent price – while in Bavaria twenty years ago. Prunella loves it so much, she"s rarely without it.”

“It"s my lucky charm,” she grinned, slapping his hand gently. “Just like you.”

“Didn"t the baron have at least six huge estates with large, intricate mazes?” Linda asked.

“He had eight and they did indeed have large mazes – outdoors and in,” Prunella nodded. “He loved puzzles and riddles, and parties and galas where hide-n-seek was one of the major "events".”

in“Didn"t he jump off a bell tower?”

“I believe he flew.” She twittered again. “He thought he could fly like an eagle.”

flew“Or a vulture,” Linda said flatly. “Loopy was right.”

Rey agreed. “Now, how about we check out the property? I"m in.”

“That"ll kill three hours if we"re lucky,” Linda murmured. “Okay, I"m in, too.”

“Great. We can hunt for clues while we"re at it.”

“Clues?” Percival.

“To who and what killed Thomas Saturne.”

“We"re back to that, are we?” Jensen.

Rey sniffed. “Someone offed him. Who agrees? Hands up!”

Linda and I exchanged glances and raised ours. Jensen"s remained on his cup, Percival"s on his fork, May-Lee"s on the table, and Adwin"s under his chin. Prunella"s partially raised limp hand resembled a spent tulip drooping in a breezeless, arid afternoon.

“My dear, you do realize that by suggesting murder you"re also suggesting that one of us is the killer.” Jensen"s smile was a cross between sour and smug.

murderusPrunella"s hand flopped. “I don"t think I like that.”

“It could be one of the servants,” Rey pointed out, “or someone hidden away in the house. I never meant to imply it was one of us.”

Cousin Reynalda had never been one to think things through.

“I think I like that even less.” Prunella gazed worriedly at her brother and picked nervously at the pendant. “Good Lord, what if she"s right? What if it"s one of the servants? Who"s to say we won"t be poisoned next? Or even worse maybe, what if there"s a lunatic lurking in the cellar or leering through a wall?”

“Listen, if Thomas Saturne was murdered, and that"s a big "if", he was killed by someone who had specifically targeted him.” Adwin"s voice was as silky as one of his double cream puddings and he took her hand as gently as if it were a Grand Marnier souffle. “If his killer is sitting here, he or she had personal grounds for doing the man in. If the killer is someone outside this little group, he or she has got to be long gone. Look, no one else has been killed. No one"s been threatened, have they?”

outsideWe all shook our heads.

“Then let"s not get panicky. We don"t even know for sure that it was murder, do we?

We"re getting overly theatrical,” he gazed sternly at Rey, “and assuming the most sensational scenario possible. The man had a rash. He more than likely had an allergic reaction to something he ate or something he came in contact with. Maybe it took a while to get into his system before it killed him. Or he had a simple heart attack. Unless the police tell us differently, let"s not assume things. Now, we"ve got a few more days here. Let"s simply go with the flow.” My beau"s smile was as serene as his tone. The apprehension that had started to cloak the breakfast party like a heavy cerement began to lift.

“Let"s confirm you"re right,” Rey challenged, suddenly bright-eyed and awake. “Let"s check out his room and belongings –”

“The police already did that,” Prunella pointed out.

“They checked out what they believed belonged to a man who"d died of natural causes, not someone they believed had met foul play.” Good old melodramatic Rey.

But she had a point. Maybe they"d not been as thorough as they might have been had Thomas Saturne received a bullet or dagger between those eerily darksome eyes.

“What can it hurt?” I asked, draining my tea and standing. “It might be fun – like one of those Aunt Mat"s dinner-mystery weekends I"ve heard so much about.”

“She did have spectacular ones,” Percival nodded, smiling in recollection. “The one with the captain and the mermaid – ah, well, yes.” He cleared his throat and stood. “I"m in!”

And one by one we filed upstairs.