The Connecticut Corpse Caper Read online

  “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 Facebook 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 Dick 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.

  3

  What Were They Thinking!?

  While I'd never actually written film or TV scripts, I had penned a few five- and ten-minute specials, primarily on national travel, and health and beauty tips. But being a film writer had always lingered in the back of my mind, kind of like a scar from a childhood fall off a family apple tree. Creating a “mental” script happened at the oddest moments … like now.

  REY

  (eyeing her cousin over her drink, running a long finger along the rim)

  What's with the bags under Jilly's eyes? Hasn't she heard of concealer?

  She hasn't lost that artsy look she's had for too many years. Look at all that black: pants, turtleneck, and those weird shoe-boots. Does she think she's in the Outback? At least she got rid of “Goth girl”. She was too even-tempered to play the part twenty years ago, and she doesn't seem much different now.

  Smart move growing her hair shoulder length and putting burgundy highlights in that raven-black hair. Now, if she only added color to those high cheekbones and Angelina Jolie lips.

  (sips thoughtfully)

  What about that Adwin? She obviously turned his head. He's kinda cute:Justin Bieber meets Criss Angel. So not a perfect couple, but at least they're together. Other than a handful of two-week stands, I haven't had a relationship in three years. Linda says I'm too demanding, high-strung and high maintenance. Screw that. I'm an actress for effing's sake! My three exes – doorknobs – didn't learn that quick enough.

&nb
sp; LINDA

  (eyeing the port)

  Shoulda opted for rye and ginger like Rey. Who needs a fortified liquid sugar overload? Dang-crap. When Rey had said “fun in picturesque Connecticut”, I was expecting galleries and shops and restaurants, not a sleepy countryside and stuffy mansion. Jeez, the place smells like someone died here. Hey, wait a sec. They did!

  MAY-LEE

  (looking guardedly from Percival to Prunella)

  This promises to be an intriguing affair, especially with the Sayers:Miss Nutbar and Mister Weird.

  ADWIN

  (putting his glasses back on)

  I'd rather be perfecting my latest mousse cake: acai-goji berry surprise.

  Maybe I should go with less cognac the next time.

  (glances at Jill)

  She looks sleep-deprived, which means she'll give another new meaning to the word “bitch”.

  PAN OUT. BEATRICE THE MAID lumbers across the room as if she weighs three-hundred pounds instead of one hundred and starts to replace an empty bottle of Australian Shiraz with a new one. THOMAS SATURNE grabs it before it touches the sideboard.

  Thomas, whose eyes are as dark and shiny as Bela Lugosi's cape, refills his glass while PERCIVAL SAYERS exchanges a glance with his sister, PRUNELLA SAYERS, and then watches her stroll to the sideboard to refresh whiskies and sodas.

  THOMAS

  (gazes circumspectly around)

  What a long and dreary stay this is going to be. Damn, why is Matty making me partake of these shenanigans? I'm too old for this, and much too professional.

  The woman had always been a wing-ding and I rather liked that about her. She was Fruit Harvest cereal to bland porridge when it came to the perpetually boring clients I've had to deal with.

  Thomas loosens his tie, scratches a red-flecked neck and sits in one of two fabric-arm accent chairs. He regards a man strolling into the room.

  THOMAS

  At least there's one person I can relate to: Jensen Moone. He reminds me of Dr. Abraham Van Helsing. Maybe it's that melancholic or haunted look about him, like a man of great knowledge and experience who has suffered more than his fair share over the last half century or so. Or maybe it's that huge gold crucifix protruding from that stiff shirt. Strange. What is it about that face – that's it. He looks like he sucks prunes all day – a result of the stodgy London legal arena, no doubt – but at least we can chat law.

  JENSEN

  (nods at Thomas and reclaims his drink from a long marble mantelpiece)

  That man is too moody, much like an old brooding bachelor-uncle stuck in a somber postwar household, and eating too much Bubble'n'Squeak from the looks of those tubes around his belly. And why hasn't he applied ointment to those bizarre blemishes on his neck and face? He's sitting there scratching himself like a flea-infested mongrel. No, make that walrus.

  If the chap isn't going to wear tailor-made suits, he could make an effort to press and coordinate his ready-to-wear attire. What was the man thinking when he tucked that two-sizes-too-small sky-blue shirt into those clay-brown trousers? And where did he purchase that hideous brown-and-cream tie? Marks & Spencer …1974?

  (nods at Prunella, who slips past with a demure smile)

  Now there's a striking woman. Nicely shaped. Energetic. Rather Laura Ashley, though, for someone of her years. The long braid and Birkenstocks really must go. But striking, to be sure.

  PERCIVAL

  (noticing Jensen's appraising glance)

  I'll have to keep an eye on that one. Prunella is too pretty and much too ingenuous for her own good. Better she keeps her sights on her feathered friends and sticks with her associates at the Plume & Bill Guild. Matty's brother-in-law is too moneyed and sophisticated, and way too serious for his own good. Why, Mr. London Barrister looks like he sucks on lemons – no, make that prunes – all day and is suffering from the repercussions of doing so. Shit. I can't wait for these seven days to be over and done with.

  PRUNELLA

  (hands her brother a glass with a huge grin)

  This is going to be so much fun, I just know it. Matty always threw parties to die for!

  PERCIVAL

  (smiles gaily and downs the drink)

  Shi-it.

  4

  The Dinner Bell Tolleth

  Even if the eccentric hostess was in absentia, dinner embraced the wacky. Hematite-black name cards with silver scroll-like print had been placed around a long rectangular mahogany dining table, but everyone played illiterate and sat beside those he or she felt most comfortable with.

  Diffused lighting was provided by two ornate silver candelabras on the table, two Victorian floor candleholders in the westernmost corner, one four-arm wrought-iron candleholder chandelier suspended in the center of an unusually narrow room, and four two-tone brass wall sconces. Save for the sconces, plasma-red candles burned brightly in all.

  Cutlery was early American chunky-clunky while the china had to have been made especially for the occasion. Or Halloween. The color combination again was hematite-black and silver and the motif was ectoplasm. What else could the protoplasmic substance design in the middle of the plates be? Okay, maybe a San Francisco fogbank. But if you considered the black linen napkins were secured by tiny nooses instead of napkin rings, well, ectoplasm it had to be.

  If I didn't know better, I'd have bet dollars to donuts that Aunt Mat was lurking behind one of the dark-grained panels lining three walls. I'd also bet if I looked away, sparkling ginger-brown eyes darting with cyclonic speed would appear in one of six landscape paintings; either that or eyes belonging to one of several animal heads on the far wall would twinkle with merriment. Actually, nix that. If she were around, she'd probably be hiding behind one of several large colorful square and rectangular plates lining a handsome Italian-styled credenza (fashioned of alder possibly, but what would the queen of Swedish assemble-yourself furniture know). Spindly Beatrice would lift one and there she'd be, grinning and yelling, “Surprise! Yolk's on you!”

  Save for the retro platters, the furnishings and colors were old-world, nice in their day, but tired and stuffy now. Aunt Mat had never been into modern, but she did have eclectic and sometimes bawdy tastes. Missing were nineteenth-century bordello layers of reds, blacks and purples, and velvets and satins.

  Beatrice did her lumbering thing and heavy brown orthopedic shoes clop-clop-clopped across a gleaming hardwood floor. Graceful was not a word in this woman's vocabulary. She poured more Chardonnay into heavy multi-colored goblets reminiscent of a Kandinsky abstract painting … gone wrong.

  Everyone had dressed up in eveningwear, the sort appropriate for a dance club more than a fine family dinner at a local castle. It seemed we females had sent telepathic messages down the long second-floor hallway: do slinky and/or glitzy and pink. How scary was that?

  We'd finished the soup and salad courses – mushroom and mushroom respectively. There must have been a sale on the button ones at the supermarket. Or maybe they'd been picked at a local farm. It wasn't hard to envision Porter the household cook traipsing around with a large wicker basket, giving edible fungi a critical eye. The man, who was as round as a teepee and about as tall, loved his food as much as it loved him. Porter, by the way, wasn't his real name; Aunt Mat thought it made a better cook's name than Ralph.

  “So May-Lee, what are your thoughts? Do you find us a behaved, civilized group this lovely November evening?” Prunella chuckled, fingering a long gold bird-claw pendant she'd been wearing earlier. The talons were decorated with tiny diamonds and the pendant, like the thick ropey chain, looked old and expensive. Aunt Jane Sue, a bird enthusiast much like Prunella, would have loved the expensive, antique piece. She'd introduced me to the world of birds when I was ten, and while I'd learned a few things about the feathered creatures, I'd never developed the same passion.

  The antique shop owner smiled prettily, showing tiny pearly teeth. “For the moment, Prunella darling. For the moment.”

  “Why wouldn't we be behaved or civil
ized?” Linda asked curiously over her wine glass.

  May-Lee's smile evolved into a diva's smirk. “Dear Matty's been known to entertain guests from … curious walks of life.”

  I felt as confused as Linda appeared, but decided to stay out of whatever odd little face-to-face the two ladies were engaging in.

  Adwin glanced at me and I offered the barest of shrugs. He leaned close and whispered, “Is it just me or is there tension?”

  “There's tension,” I whispered in return. “But does it stem from jealously, rivalry, or simple, mutual dislike?”

  He crossed his eyes in response and reached for his wine.

  “What's everyone gonna do with their share?” Rey asked, fiddling with a thin fuchsia strap that insisted on falling off a lean shoulder, her eyes glassy from two triple-ounce drinks tossed back in the last twenty minutes. But who was counting?

  That question was bound to come up at some point. I flourished my hand like an over-enthusiastic student. “I'd set up my own business –”

  “You mean your own weather station,” Adwin said with a wave of a sesame seed encrusted breadstick. (Was it my imagination or did it resemble a severed limb?)

  “No, not at all. I'd produce one of the screenplays I've always considered writing. There are four floating around in my head. A sci-fi, comedy, and two dramas. The money would help make a creative future reality.”