The Connecticut Corpse Caper Read online

  Ensuring the heavy front door was locked and the blinds still secure, I removed the raincoat and hooked it on one of two fat pegs on the back of the door. Turning on the faux Rayo lamp, I peeked under a sheet before sitting on the edge of a snug plum-colored corduroy loveseat. Why I'd felt a need to return I couldn't say, but the itch had been too great to subdue.

  “Hold on.” I glanced back at the broken window I'd overlaid with cardboard. There was thick, see-through plastic tacked over it. “What the …”

  I experienced Adwin's earlier feeling about being watched. That investigative reporter he was certain was buried deep within me emerged. I felt a case of Poirotitis coming on and like the diminutive French detective, I surveyed walls, nooks and crannies with a critical eye. Fact: someone had been here since my beau and I had departed. Fact: sheets and coverings aside, the place was extremely clean. Fact: the dwelling had been relatively warm when we'd first arrived, as if providing lodging or shelter for a guest. Fact: there'd been a light in here on at least one occasion, and I may not have been the only person to have seen it. But I was the only one who'd admit it. Why?

  Who was looking after this place? The person who'd secured the window? A scraping sound, like sandpaper rubbing rough wood and similar to the one made by the moving panels the gang had been stealing through recently, interrupted my musing. I turned, ready to pounce and/or run. My jaw dropped – as did I, right back into the backrest. “You!”

  Aunt Mat stepped from a shadowy opening beyond the gilt-framed mirror, stopped in the kitchenette and leaned both elbows on the counter. She looked at me expectantly, perhaps thinking I'd either lose it and start screaming hysterically, or berate her for a joke gone horribly wrong.

  Shock, anger, and happiness rolled over one another like Gloucestershire cheese rollers moving down Cooper Hill. My voice was as dry as Uncle Charly's barbecued chicken, which gave new meaning to the culinary term “blackened”. “You are going to explain everything, I hope.”

  A quick smile followed a meek reply: “It's a wee bit of a long story.”

  “I bet it is.”

  Good old kooky Aunt Mat. Dressed in soft sable slacks, a maple-colored wool sweater and heavy matching shawl, wheat-blonde hair tucked behind dainty ears sporting sizeable pearl earrings, she looked like a noblewoman on a weekend getaway; casual yet stylish. And very alive. She looked me up and down. “You've lost weight, haven't you, dear? … I like the hair.”

  “I'm wearing Cousin Norbett's XXL Panthers sweatshirt and track pants two sizes too big. These rainboots, owner unknown, are scuffed and worn to crap, and Adwin's thermal socks, fortunately unseen, need serious darning. Thanks to the weather, I look like a soggy rooster about to engage in the cockfight of its life.” Absently I pulled at my hair. “Stop buttering me up.”

  She arched a knobby shoulder and turned to a bottom cupboard, rummaged past boxes of kitchen supplies, and pulled out a bottle of Hennessy Privilege. A fine woodsy-spicy cognac was how she'd once described the grape brandy in an email, her fourth that evening – drink, not email. Two Baccarat glasses followed. She poured two fingers in each and held out a glass. Alcohol was something I didn't need at this hour of the night, not that I was sure about the time. It had come to a halt; lost, forgotten. With a shrug, I took the drink and managed a slow sip. The liquid warmed nicely as it traveled downward and started softening the tension that had slipped into my neck and shoulders. We eyed each other warily. Neither one of us looked like we were sure what to say first or who would say it.

  We finished our drinks and Aunt Mat poured two more. Glass in hand, she motioned the open panel and slipped inside. I followed. Anyone above a size twelve would find entry into the opening a challenge. Grabbing a large flashlight from a hidey-hole, she flicked it on, closed the panel, and started down a narrow but gentle landing. It was cool but not cold, stale but not fusty. We reached a short flight of stairs, narrow and steep, and very dark. I kept anxious eyes on the bright orange bobbing ball ahead as we took countless steps, waited for a slim narrow door to slide aside, then followed a long, winding corridor that looked vaguely familiar. But all secret passageways in huge old mansions probably looked the same.

  We entered a dimly-lighted room and it took two seconds to realize it was the one where we'd first found Jensen.

  “Are there a lot of these hidden corridors and concealed rooms in the Moone mansion? Seems like overkill.”

  “There are three that I know of: the two that circle around and the one from the cottage that leads to the house. Oh, I suppose there's a fourth, if you count the one that leads from the tower and connects to the two down here but, to me, that's merely an extension. The original owner was quite eccentric, perhaps even crazy.” She shrugged. “We have a blueprint and plan or two somewhere. They may expose others.”

  Ah yes, the tube marked ESTATE not yet opened. Adwin had put it in the closet. Out of sight, out of mind.

  I sat on an end table corner.

  “Thanks for the air conditioning in the cottage, by the way.”

  I offered a smile and a salaam. “Was this Reginald's secret place to chill, or yours?”

  “He had the tower; I had this.” She flourished an arm in a semi-arc. “When I wanted absolute privacy, I came here.”

  “You couldn't escape in one of fourteen bedrooms?” I asked drolly.

  “Someone always managed to find me,” she replied equally drolly.

  I put down the glass I'd emptied on the journey here. “Rey is going to be ticked off that she's not getting that personal trainer with her share of the inheritance.”

  “She won't right now, but in time.” Aunt Mat sat on the recamier the hide-n-seek corpse had claimed as his first resting place.

  “We discovered Jensen Moone on that: dead.”

  She scanned the scroll-patterned fabric, her brow knitted. “I thought they'd found him in the back somewhere – the garage, wasn't it?”

  “We found him here, then lost him, then found him again. Or rather Porter did. He's also dead, by the way, in case no one's been filling you in.”

  “I figured as much from the fragments of conversations I caught here and there. What a burlesque.”

  “Out of curiosity, is this where you've been hiding and sleeping most of the time?”

  “I've been using the cottage for the most part, and one of the unused guestrooms on the far north side of the house. You went there once; I figured you wouldn't be returning as there's not much there.” She sighed softly. “Since Reggie's death, I've closed off most of the place. Entertaining isn't quite the same without him.”

  I eyed her guardedly. “What gives? You're alive, but Thomas, Jensen, and Porter are dead.”

  She took a slow sip. “It's long and complicated, and may tie in with what I've learned over the past year.”

  When she didn't elaborate, I urged her on.

  “A number of antiques and art pieces Reggie had purchased over the decades have been replaced with counterfeits.”

  “How did you discover the counterfeits?”

  “Ben, a former gallery director in Berlin – and Reggie's advisor – had dropped by for a few days during an East Coast visit the year previous. We were touring Reggie's tower room when Ben's observant eye caught a few obscure incongruities. He was astounded by the quality of the replicas. He said upon first glance – and second – few people would be the wiser.”

  “But your husband was an expert, wasn't he?”

  Her smile was dry. “Reggie's eyes had deteriorated over the years. He was a bit vain when it came to glasses.” She shrugged. “It's also possible he'd 'seen' them so often, he didn't give them much thought.”

  “Wouldn't he have spotted inconsistencies prior to, or upon, delivery?”

  My aunt shrugged. “He may have found the originals sound, but the items that were shipped were fakes. Once uncrated, I doubt Reggie spent much time with them. He was all about collecting, not admiring.” Another sip. “The more digging Ben and I did, the more
we unearthed. We discovered someone had been pilfering, courtesy of the counterfeits. There are numerous investments, funds and foundations, and accounts, so it wasn't noticeable to the average eye. Invoices, receipts, and records, all appeared valid … until viewed under the proverbial microscope.”

  “So unless there was a professional actively seeking financial inconsistencies, no one would have known differently.”

  “Precisely. Fortunately, Ben's sharp eye helped bring things into the open.” She sighed softly. “I ended up hiring a private dick –”

  I burst into laughter.

  She smiled self-consciously. “I guess I've been influenced by all the old black and whites movies I'd been watching of late. Before I start spouting more forties lingo, I'd better give them up.”

  “Why? They're wonderful, but maybe you could refrain from using certain words … like 'gams' and 'kisser' and 'paluka', and 'dick'.” I laughed again. “You were saying you hired a detective?”

  “Johnny Gorcey. He has a face like Edward G around the time of Big Leaguer and the heart of Bing as Father Chuck O'Malley. In terms of missing money, he said the thief was highly skilled at covering his tracks and had probably done so for some time.”

  “He's positive it's a guy?”

  She placed her empty glass by her size five feet. “Johnny was pretty certain it could only be a handful of people who were very close to Reggie and me. He was prime for Jensen, but I was prime for Thomas. I didn't want to believe Reggie's own brother could steal from the family.”

  Calling that somber-faced gent hanging in the library-study Reggie seemed strange, and it sounded even stranger when Aunt Matty said it – with obvious affection, as if she were whispering the name to him over cocktails and a platter of raw oysters. “Hadn't they been at odds for years, until they finally made nice?”

  “They had business connections and family ties, which kept them bonded to a degree, but they had never much seen eye to eye and had been very vocal about it to everyone. For years, they spoke through intermediaries, but finally, thankfully, made up. Reggie's relationship with Carlton, the youngest Moone brother, had also been at odds. In fact, theirs had disintegrated in one rage-filled moment when Carlton defied Reggie's heartfelt and logical advice.” She sighed with resignation and it was obvious she wished things had been different.

  “So the belief is that Jensen or Thomas may have been the pilferer?”

  “There's one more possibility.” She regarded me for several seconds, as if deciding whether to reveal more. Apparently she did. “Percival – through charities and businesses – had considerable dealings with Reggie during the last few years of his life. There were numerous dinners and outings, and working weekends as a result.”

  “What sort of dealings?”

  “The two were co-owners of an antiques shop, as well as a beer company. They'd become associates in five businesses in total.” As she gave a quick rundown, the sparkle in her ginger-brown eyes dimmed. I thought of the women who believed emphatically they knew their husbands well, only to realize they'd never known them at all.

  “I thought Reginald was solely into antiquities?”

  “He'd been into art, as well. Perc's Spanish firm handled both, which Reggie often used for buying and selling. Reggie had also funded an Asian exporting firm and had considerable stock in an Irish whiskey distillery.”

  “Reginald had his hands in several pots, and some with Percival,” I mused aloud, unable to see Percival as a cheat or fraudster. “… Do you really believe Prunella's brother could be capable of duping you both?”

  “Anything seems possible right now.” She tipped her head to one side. “Why do you call him Reginald? Whatever happened to 'Uncle'?”

  “I never called him 'Uncle',” I reminded her. “He never seemed like one. He never visited and never called.” I chewed my bottom lip, deciding whether to ask the question that had always been at the back of my mind. What the hell. “Why'd you marry him? Money?”

  Aunt Mat chuckled. “His money hadn't hurt, but no, I married him for love. He was different. Intelligent. World-wise. No one but the two of us knew he was such a compassionate and passionate man.”

  “He seemed the sort to leave starving kittens in a storm.”

  She smiled wistfully. “Quite the opposite. Reggie would have risked double pneumonia to save those starving kittens.” She glanced down at the floor and frowned. “You must remember that generations of Moones have been a dour, suspicious and stern lot. Reggie played the part whenever he believed it was necessary – which was 95% of the time – but he truly despised the Moone institution and what being a Moone entailed.”

  “You weren't too fond of the Moones, were you?”

  “They leaned toward the pretentious and judgmental. They considered themselves of an elevated social standing, which from my perspective was a pathetic illusion.” A fleeting glower darkened her countenance.

  I sensed Reginald's side of the family had not been overly kind to her over the years, and changed the topic. “What about all the macabre oddities around the house? Were they for show?”

  “No.” She grinned. “Reggie truly loved macabre oddities.”

  I'd have to spend some time putting the enigmatic Reginald Saver-of-Kittens Moone into perspective. Later. For the interim, I wanted to get back to Percival Sayers. To live in this area meant you had to have some money. Why had I assumed he was merely a man of middle-class means? His looks? Maybe. He didn't seem a Beluga caviar and Cristal champagne kind of person, but he did have costly designer clothes. So, in addition to writing obscure poetry and landscaping articles, the man was an entrepreneur and potential pilferer. Or was that embezzler? My due diligence was in need of less “due” and more “diligence”.

  “So the plan was to gather the suspects, along with some extras, under the pretext of a come-and-get-your-inheritance extravaganza?”

  “It seemed an ingenious way to uncover the truth.”

  I rose and rubbed my backside, which was feeling a burn from sitting on a hard base. “Were you hoping one, both, or all would be so overwhelmed by your death, they'd break down and confess all sins?”

  “Something like that.” Aunt Mat chuckled, but not with humor, and gestured the spot alongside her. I sat with a grimace. There was something disturbing about parking yourself on a place where a dead body had rested.

  “Johnny was waiting to engage a hacker friend's services. Macky's the best there is, says he.”

  “Waiting?”

  “Macky had been away for a wee while.”

  Being “the best” was undoubtedly why he'd been “away for a wee while” – as in “prison away”. I motioned my aunt to continue.

  “I was aiming for a big jaw-dropping moment, when I'd walk into dinner and confront the group.” She smiled ruefully. “But it appears others have had the pleasure of grabbing such moments since this get-together first began.”

  “So you were hoping to play Columbo and solve the crimes of fraud and thievery?” I asked.

  “I was hoping more for a Magnum moment; I always liked the Aloha spirit and paradisiacal tranquility.”

  “I myself always liked the rumpled lieutenant's persistent one-more-question approach.”

  She leaned back. “I got to thinking, Jilly –”

  “Oh-oh.”

  She offered an uncharacteristic raspberry, reminiscent of her niece Rey. “Over the last wee while, I got to thinking that Prunella could also be involved. Or solely involved. Her brother's not the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer, but that may be an act.”

  An earlier thought returned and I held up a hand. “Does anyone in the Moone family smoke?”

  She shook her head. “Reggie indulged in the very odd Cohiba, but no one smoked cigarettes. I believe we were all of the same – and rare – mind in that regard. They're coffin nails. Why?”

  “Just curious. I thought I'd seen a package on an end table, and got to wondering who the smoker was, but it may have been somet
hing else,” I said lightly. I'd joked about Percival being the owner of that butt in the corridor, but later as I was mentally rummaging through recent events like bric-a-brac at a garage sale, that brief scene replayed itself. Why hadn't I thought to pick it up? If it had proven to be the remainder of a French cigarette, it would have proven that Percival Sayers was a liar: he knew of, and had been in, the hidden passageways previously. That, in turn, pointed an accusatory (legitimate) finger at him.

  “There's certainly more to Pruney than meets the eye,” I commented, recalling her attire in the hallway.

  “She's not quite the librarian or hippie she appears.” Aunt Mat leaned forward, her eyes sparkling merrily again.

  I leaned forward as well. We were nearly forehead to forehead. “You're going to drop a bomb, aren't you?”

  “I found out that our friend of feathered vertebrates was having an affair with Thomas. Johnny provided the proof.”

  Rey would be overjoyed with the news, but it was hardly a bomb at this stage. “They'd been photographed together a number of times.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. They often attended functions and galas together.” She waved a hand dismissively. “So did I. You could find thirty photos of Prunella and Thomas grinning and hugging, but you could find thirty photos of Thomas and I doing the same. Those photos don't prove a thing.”

  When she didn't continue, I urged, “But Johnny's photos do … ?”

  “Yes. They proved the two were intimate. It wasn't only his photos, but ones taken by the lovers themselves. Johnny found them by accident.”

  By accident? I wasn't going there. The less known about Johnny's private detective antics, the better. “When did this relationship end?”