The Connecticut Corpse Caper Page 11

  He moved to a grooming kit on a nightstand and placed a drop of Joop at the base of the neck; never more, never less. “And?”

  “The property dates back to 1860.”

  “Antebellum?” He searched through a drawer for socks. “I'd have thought it was built later.”

  “The property was initially five times as big. Besides this house – which has been renovated, extended and expanded at least three times since then – there were stables, a barn, a circular drive, parterre garden, kitchen garden, and a carriage house, which burned down in 1904.

  “The main house had been designed and built for the Smith family by an architect named Montague Black. The Smith family, sadly, met with continual tragedy. Caine Granton Smith became very ill three years after they'd settled here and nearly died. His health never fully returned. He was a scientist of some sort and had hired an assistant by the name of Horatio who helped with experiments and the logging of findings. Smith came from money, so there was more than enough for him to carry on with scientific studies.” I scanned Angela's notes. “In 1867, Scientist Smith died. Three years later Moone Number One bought the place for a legal tender note or two.”

  “He got it cheap, did he?” Adwin asked over his shoulder as he padded back into the bathroom. It was mousse and dryer time.

  “Absurdly cheap.” I followed to observe the morning ritual.

  “How did Smith finally die?”

  “He was crushed under the wheels of a fast-moving stagecoach.”

  “Those accidents happened all the time back then – like car crashes today.”

  I glanced in the mirror and decided I could partake of my own morning ritual. I gestured my beau to pass the mousse and applied some to unruly waves. “They never found the stagecoach, never mind a driver – only Smith's broken body along a common stagecoach route.”

  “A phantom coach.” He pulled and twisted spikes as if they were fondant being molded into cake turrets. “I see a movie in the making.”

  “Then his wife, Elisabeth Mary, who continued to live here with the servants and three kids, died.”

  “Courtesy of another phantom?” On went the blow-dryer.

  I waited for him to finish. “Poison forever silenced her speech. There's no mention whether it was self-administered or dispensed by another hand.”

  Adwin scanned my reflection. “What about the kids?”

  “A rich aunt took them to Boston to live with her. One became a doctor, another had something to do with the Zeppelin airship, and the whereabouts of the third remain unknown as he went off to China on a mission of humanity and was never heard from again.”

  “Kudos to Angela.” He gave a thumbs up. “She discovered a lot in a short period of time.”

  “Thanks in part to an autobiography written by one of the great-grandkids, Sue Smith. There's a blog dedicated to the Smiths and their history, and another related to Sue's writing. Both are maintained by a proud family member with the initials L.L. It seems the misfortunate Mr. and Mrs. Smith spawned intelligent and inventive offspring; they, in turn, spawned a whack of extraordinary and prominent offspring. Some proved more prominent than others, while a few suffered the early Smith misfortune.”

  “You mean stagecoach hit-and-runs and/or poison?”

  “Destitution, dementia, devilry, and other hardships.” I keyed and motioned him to the screen. “Here's an old layout of the property – a bad one – but it does give an idea of what it originally looked like.” I moved to another image. “Here's a newer layout.”

  He stared for several seconds. “Go back to the old one.” He waited and pointed. “The original property was much larger – as you said – but the cottage was L-shaped and longer, and not as close to the Sayers property.”

  “It was obviously rebuilt and relocated.” I flipped between the old and new views. “Maybe the original one burned down or was torn down. You're right though; it's pretty close to the Sayers property. I hadn't noticed.”

  “Either had I, until we looked at these plans.”

  “I should ask Percival about the history of his place. Maybe it belonged to a relative or friend of the Smiths … hence the proximity.”

  Adwin smiled dryly. “Be prepared for an afternoon of excitement.”

  A loud knock demanded our attention.

  “Hey-ho, anybody here?” Rey's sing-song voice asked.

  Adwin rolled his eyes and passed the dryer. He put on a ten-thousand-dollar smile and slipped from the bathroom. “Hey-ho, we're doing our hair.”

  I scanned my reflection, gave up the notion of doing anything else, and grabbed a cosmetics bag. Some color on the cheeks and lips wouldn't hurt, and the bags under the eyes needed concealing.

  When I entered the room, Rey was on the edge of bed, dressed in Hilfiger jeans and a fitted baby-pink turtleneck, and sporting full make-up. She looked pretty and unusually cheerful and perky.

  “You look like the cat that swallowed the canary, her mate, the babies, and the nest,” I commented, grabbing a lightweight chocolate-brown suede bomber jacket from the closet and slipping it on.

  Rey's grin widened. “Linda did some laptop detecting.”

  “Jill's associate checked out the history of the place and discovered a few interesting things. Maybe Linda found something equally cool,” Adwin suggested, slipping into a pair of black Converse All Stars.

  My cousin glanced at me, her gaze wavering between bemused and surprised. “I guess we have some info exchanging to do.”

  “First please, Number Two Cousin, provide facts found.” I bowed my head and perched myself on the edge of a narrow windowsill.

  “Thank you, most honorable cousin who does not-so-bad Charlie Chan impression.” She bowed her head in return. “Linda ran a search on Thomas Saturne.”

  Pooh. Beaten to the punch. “And she learned … ?”

  “Not a helluva lot. He'd been in the legal biz for about a quarter of a century. Did some pro bono work for a few charities and non-profit orgs. Was linked to some strange non-profit scandal, but was cleared when it turned out that someone at the non-profit was proven to be the actual guilty party. He also sat on a half-dozen boards and committees over the years – one of a company owned by Reginald Moone.”

  Adwin leaned into the back of the door, expressing exaggerated interest. Although he leaned toward the mild Clark Kent type, he could be quite a jokester and mocker when inclined. “And?”

  “And, Jilly's boyfriend, he attended a few black-tie functions.”

  “And?” Adwin and I challenged in unison.

  “And there are a few photos of those functions.” She leaned back on her palms, the look shy of gloating. “At a dozen different functions in the last eight years he had the same escort.”

  We continued the game. “And?”

  “The date was a woman with long hamster-colored hair and sexy clothes, and a decent body, too, for someone who has to have been in her mid to late forties at the time.”

  “So he had a date, a girlfriend with rodent hair?” Adwin exhaled loudly and crossed his arms. “Do we get three guesses as to who she is – was?”

  My cousin laughed and rubbed her hands gleefully, playing smugness to the hilt. “I'd give you five, but you'd never guess, so I'm going to tell.” She glanced from him to me, her smile widening to the point I thought her lips would touch her ears. “Prunella Bird-Lover Sayers.”

  My eyes bulged to the point you might have thought I was suffering from hyperthyroidism, while Adwin's mouth pretty much dropped to his bony knees. But then I recalled Percival's mention of the two being on the same board and it made sense that they would attend the same functions and be photographed together.

  Another knock. This one sounded as if someone were using a brick instead of a fist. Percival stuck in his head. “Everyone's waiting at the breakfast table. They have delicious looking frittatas.”

  Rey said, “I don't like frittatas.”

  He smiled gaily. “The other option is quinoa-and-flaxs
eed waffles.”

  “That sounds healthy,” Adwin said.

  “With Vegemite.”

  “Nummy.” Rey clasped my forearm. “Come on. We can't let the waffles get cold and hard.” She leaned close. “Like Jensen Moone must be this morning.”

  * * *

  The rain – more sleet really – returned after noon. Visibility was minimal. The storm was making an official entrance. Fortunately, the in-ground hot tub and its “pergola” (I'd have been more tempted to call it a sun lounge) was completely covered. With its ergonomically-designed seats and invigorating jets, the ceramic tub was proving to be a great stress-reliever. It bubbled and steamed, and created a fine mist that veiled our faces. Sporting conservative bathing suits that Beatrice had provided from a guest stash, Adwin, Percival, May-Lee, Rey and I reclined and relaxed, and sipped a light fruity wine. Perhaps it wasn't appropriate, considering Jensen's death and/or disappearance, but really, for all we knew, he could be playing a fantastic joke. The “body” hadn't yet been found, so quite possibly “it” was alive and well, and scooting surreptitiously between rooms.

  Sitting in the hot tub was preferable to sitting in the drawing room, which lent itself to the somber. And remaining in our rooms waiting for a late lunch to be served didn't seem that pleasing, either. Linda had opted for chips and dip and soda with Prunella in the den, along with Season One of The Big Bang Theory. Prunella didn't seem the sort to watch frivolous television, but when Linda stated that was what she was doing, the older woman quickly asked if she could keep her company.

  “Think we'll find him?” Rey asked, stretching long lean legs onto an empty seat.

  “That depends on if he's really dead,” Adwin replied.

  “He looked pretty dead to me,” she said flatly.

  I took a long sip and exhaled through my mouth, watching my breath float across the sizeable tub before restating what I'd thought and said previously. “It could have been make-up and special effects. I only checked the pulse, not the stake… I wasn't exactly inclined to touch it to see if it was real.”

  Percival gestured with his glass. “If one of us had checked more carefully, we might have discovered the stake was fake.”

  May-Lee grimaced. “Or we might have discovered a real corpse with mutilated flesh and pulp for a heart.”

  Adwin looked aghast and threw back his drink.

  “Whatever the case, until he shows up – hopefully alive and simpering like a self-satisfied prankster – the police think we're, as you might say Reynalda, 'loony tunes'.” Percival reached for a second bottle of wine perched in an ice-filled bucket and refilled glasses.

  Rey gazed from one moist face to the next. “I don't suppose we want to go searching –”

  “No” was the firm, unanimous response before she could complete the question.

  “Then where do we go from here?” she sniffed.

  “We let the police do their job and wait,” I replied, rubbing a warm hand across my cold nose.

  “If he was killed, why was he killed?” May-Lee.

  “Let's say, for the moment, Thomas Saturne was murdered,” I offered. “Perhaps Jensen saw something he shouldn't have in relation to the killing and was silenced as a result.”

  “Then why not die within minutes or hours of Thomas? Why give a witness an opportunity to spill the beans, so to speak?” May-Lee asked, slipping lower into the hot frothy water. It was getting progressively colder around us as outside elements began to pummel the enclosure like an over-zealous masseuse.

  “Maybe Jensen didn't witness anything in terms of the actual murder, but bumped into the killer as he or she was getting rid of evidence,” Adwin proposed. “Jensen may not have been aware of what he was actually seeing, but in the killer's eyes that would have made him a serious liability.”

  “That would explain the stake,” Rey declared. “It's the type of weapon you'd use in the heat of the moment.”

  “A spontaneous action, or reaction,” Adwin agreed.

  “Speculation is a decent time-waster, but does little for unraveling a mystery or providing a resolution.” Percival drained his glass and draped a fleecy towel over his head. “I'm feeling more wrinkled than usual. See you later, my sodden-faced friends.”

  * * *

  Rey proved to be a chatterbox during lunch. She possessed enough decorum, however, not to say anything about Prunella and Thomas as possible lovers, but it was obvious – with those long knowing glances and salty smiles – that she was dying to reveal what she had discovered. Unfortunately, I'd not had a chance to tell her what Percival had disclosed about the two: that Thomas and Prunella were business acquaintances who had attended a few functions together and had bona fide reasons for being there. This would have flipped those patronizing smiles upside down. And I'd have bet a week-long sports-casting stint that was precisely what Prunella would maintain should she have been put on the spot.

  Who in their wildest dreams could imagine Thomas and Prunella an item? Thomas Tinky Winky Saturne wasn't exactly hunky, charming, likeable, or wealthy. A hanky-panky infused relationship between lawyer and birder seemed as plausible as a union between Mother Goose and the Brothers Grimm.

  Waving away the coffeepot that Beatrice held over me like an aspersorium, I rose. “What's first on the agenda after some serious teeth-brushing?”

  “We search for Jensen Moone … and we try to locate your Fred,” Rey replied.

  “Fred the Cat?” Prunella appeared perplexed. “He was lapping up cream in the kitchen a few minutes ago when I got a glass of Perrier.”

  “Fred the Ghost.” Rey smirked. “Remember him? The singing spirit that nobody has seen except Jilly and her cake-maker boyfriend.” The smirk evolved into an askew smile as she stared at us for confirmation.

  We presented malevolent looks in response.

  “I say we opt for Fred the Ghost and forget the barrister.” Percival patted a napkin to his lips and stood. “Jensen Moone is – pardon the pun – a dead end. At least for the moment.”

  Prunella groaned and slapped her brother's butt.

  “Shouldn't we wait until midnight?” May-Lee asked, pushing aside her plate. “Ghosts don't come out during the day, do they?”

  ”Sure they do.”

  “How would you know?” Percival appeared genuinely intrigued by the fact Rey would know.

  “I did research for a film where I played a priest's daughter. You may remember the film – I was the town librarian who shot one of the lesser evil spirits, Tedworth, with a silver arrow.”

  Priest's daughter? Town librarian? I looked at her blankly.

  “Oh, come on – you know the movie! The one where blond hunk Myles Milestone annihilates the freaks and lackeys who serve Cienne, the master evil spirit.”

  “Sure,” I smiled, not having a clue. “You remember the film, don't you, truffles?”

  Adwin nodded. “Demented Demons go Delinquent.”

  Reynalda beamed.

  I stared at my beau. I'd forgotten he liked cheesy B films.

  “Are evil spirits the same as ghosts?” Prunella looked skeptical.

  “Some of them in the movie were.”

  “That was a movie, not reality,” I pointed out. “You've never met a ghost, have you?”

  “No,” she sneered. “I haven't been as lucky as you.”

  “Let's hold off ghost trekking,” Adwin suggested. “Fred seems to be more of a night spirit.”

  “We could play bridge,” Prunella offered. “Or Scrabble or Monopoly. I saw board games in a closet.”

  “Or tag. One-two-three, you're it,” Rey said sarcastically.

  Linda elbowed her.

  “Count me in,” Adwin said, draining his cranberry juice. “Corpse and ghost hunting are getting boring.”

  “Only because they're not cooperating,” Rey said with a pout.

  “Tell you what, Rey,” he said with a wry smile. “You get Jensen or Fred to cooperate, and I'll be happy to –”

  A shriek, blo
odcurdling enough to send shivers skipping up spines, erupted.

  “Right on cue,” I grinned.

  “That sounded real to me.” Linda peered pensively around the dining room. ”Where'd it come from?”

  “The kitchen.”

  “Outside.”

  “No, the garage.”

  15

  What a Jam

  We raced to the kitchen and bumped into Beatrice who, astonishingly, was careening around a corner like an Impreza WRX STI rally car. Then we knocked over Hubert, who was lurching toward us, wild-eyed and wild-haired (apparently hair, no matter how sparse, did stand up on end when its owner was frightened out of his or her wits). Percival and Adwin both hooked an arm through the butler's and, like an assortment of Mexican jumping beans, we stumbled and bumbled our way through the walkway to the attached six-car garage.

  On the far side of the large, tidy structure stood my rented Sebring, Thomas' two-tone '58 Bentley, and Reginald's prized pearl-black Bentley S3 Continental. Oil stains on the far side of the Bentley, before Linda's Accord, indicated where two additional cars once stood, probably Aunt Mat's sportscars.

  Leaning to the side of the partially open trunk of Reginald's car was Porter, his face flour-white, and his frozen expression a combination of dread and fear. Who'd have expected someone of that mass to emit such a high-pitched shriek?

  “What's wrong with him?” Concern lined Adwin's low forehead.

  “He seems to be dazed,” Prunella responded, stepping beside the cook and draping an arm around his broad back. “Are you all right my friend?”

  Percival instructed Beatrice to get water and a first-aid kit, and flounced across the garage to his sister's side.

  “Should he be moved?” Linda asked worriedly.

  “Perhaps he needs to catch his breath,” Hubert suggested softly, peering around Linda's shoulder.

  “He doesn't appear hurt,” May-Lee said. “Merely bewildered.”