Who Page 5

  “The phones are out,” muttered the hostess.

  “Let me check on him,” Cason said to Ms. Rosebud.

  “I had better go up with you,” but as much as she wished, she was too upset to move.

  “No, stay where you are, I’ll be right back. Salisbury,” the lawyer paused, turning to the houseman.

  “Yes, I know, I’m coming.”

  ***

  The bulk of the conversation lay heavy on each member of the party; Mr. Jay had been an innocent victim of a very unlikely circumstance, and the idea that he was lying upstairs dead ignited insecurity over the platter of food served. Questions of “did you eat the strawberries?” passed from person to person, as well as “who ate what?” and “how much was consumed?” There was quite a bit of anxiety growing until Dr. Cason returned downstairs with the houseman trailing behind. “He’s not dead,” she announced.

  “Not dead?” asked Ms. Rosebud, becoming consciously relieved.

  “No, but rather weak. I think he needs medical attention as soon as possible.” Dr. Cason pulled a bottle of brandy off the davenport and poured herself a healthy glassful.

  “Sorry, Madame. My mistake,” acknowledged the butler.

  “Hell of a mistake, Salisbury!” cried Stiltskin. But as soon as he took a breath, Goldie elbowed him to be quiet.

  “Well, that certainly is good news, don’t you think so?” remarked Wolfe, pleased that he was more of a carnivore than a vegan.

  “Yes, except for the fact that the phones are out, and we can’t get help since the roads are flooded,” complained Dover.

  “Well, there’s no need to fret, Mr. Jay is most likely out of the woods. He’s sleeping soundly, his breathing isn’t labored, and right now, there is nothing more we can do for him. I’m going up to lie down,” announced Cason.

  “I think I’ll do the same,” bemoaned the hostess with a rather gloomy expression.

  “Cheer up, Tamaya,” exclaimed Ray. “It could be worse. It could always be worse.”

  The two sisters twisted round with snarled expression. “Such poor tact, Mr. Stiltskin,” cried Tisbe. But the little man only grinned at her words, relishing the fact that he wholly agreed with her as he watched Ms. Rosebud lean over her cane and take most of the burden up the stairs. He waited until he could hear the two doors shut before speaking. “Now that the mistress is gone, I think you’re in line for a good stiff drink.”

  “Are you speaking to me, Sir?” asked the houseman.

  “Who else? You’ve been on your feet since we got here. You could use a little downtime.” There was an impish glimmer in the little man’s eyes.

  “Very kind of you to notice, Sir,” replied Salisbury, not breaking from his character as a dutiful houseman.

  “Sure, go ahead, for once Ray is right!” exclaimed Goldie. “Pour yourself a drink and go take a rest. We’re not going to tell.”

  The houseman looked from guest to guest, and each one nodded in silent agreement, that is, except Mr. Dover, who acknowledged by handing the butler a glass of brandy. “Well then, if you all will excuse me,” said Salisbury, and accepting the offered drink, he glided out of the room and down the stairwell to his room.

  The sound of the rain dropped away as the brandy dampened the urge to talk. Goldie stood up from the comfort of the winged-back chair and caught the eye of Mr. Wolfe. He was smoking, something the older woman hadn’t seen him do before. He appeared agitated, and with each exhaled breath, there was a long unfamiliar sigh. It sounded more like a whistle than a note of discontentment. She edged over to the window, knowing Wolfe would follow. “I’m not liking the way things are going,” he muttered in a hoarse voice. He mashed the cigarette out in the ashtray and then pinched his eyes.

  “You look tired, Wolfe. Why don’t you go lie down?”

  “I can’t; got too much on my mind to sleep,” he complained. “I don’t know why the hell I listened to my wife. I should know better than to go against my instincts. I’ve got good instincts,” he said.

  “Indeed,” replied the woman. “But we are here, and we need to convince the rest of these idiots to leave things alone. I don’t give a damn about old scores and reputation. It’s too late for me as far as I’m concerned.”

  Mr. Wolfe nodded and pulled the drapes apart. He looked outside; the rain had stopped. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

  “Now?” she asked incredulously.

  “Why not, it’s not raining.”

  “Well, at least go upstairs and get a hat,” said Goldie in a grandmotherly voice.

  He smiled, but not too widely. “If we can just get Norman to see things our way, we may have a chance of convincing the others over to our side.” He turned from the window and pondered his point.

  “It’s Ray we got to worry about. Norman’s a piece of cake. He’s always been a pushover. Ray, oh, I remember him from way back. A real devil. Good-hearted if you get to know him, but he’s a devil.” Her voice trailed off as if there was something else on her mind.

  Wolfe liked Goldie, but now she was getting on his nerves. Anyone that had been locked up for as many combined years as they had endured knew the ropes. She might be a sweet little old lady, but even old ladies can be conniving. “Hat, yes, I suppose I should put on my hat and an outer coat. I guess I should’av brought a raincoat.”

  “We’ll continue our talk later,” the woman suggested. “In the meantime, I think I’ll go up and get my needlework.” She looked about the room and noticed the only other person was Mr. Dover, and he was engaged in a book he had taken off the library shelf. She tilted her head but couldn’t make out the title. “Can you see what he’s reading?” she whispered.

  Wolfe squinted and then snorted, “Beauty and the Beast,” he said.

  “Figures,” said Goldie coldly, “that bitch got all the good press.”

  “You didn’t like the tale?” laughed Mr. Wolfe.

  “Not after she made a fortune from the movie rights. Some people get all the luck.”

  “Luck?” said Mr. Wolfe. “I don’t believe in luck. The only thing I can rely on is my cunning. Trust me; she didn’t have luck, just a very good agent.”

  “And the Beast?”

  “That part, my dear, was a fairy tale.”

  ***

  Wolfe navigated his way down the hill, turning around now and again to see if he were being followed. He refused to take things at face value; the weekend invitation in such close quarters was notably confining. He was markedly impatient, and to say that he was superstitious was an understatement. Dead bodies had gotten him into a world of trouble before, and he cursed the situation he found himself in.

  A stand of sycamores stood flat against the sky. Wolfe contemplated whether to take a short-cut across their dark path or to continue along the twisting road. For a fading moment, he stood alone until a call in the silence tore a hole big enough for, “Hello, there!” A peal of laughter rose with the sight of Wolfe’s startled expression. “Whoo there, old-timer; sorry to frighten you.” Sitting on a swollen log was a youth with a pleasant smile and a look of innocence.

  “Old-timer, who are you calling old-timer,” challenged Wolfe as he sucked in his stomach and straightened his hat brim below his brow.

  “You’re one of the guests up at the Rosebud estate, aren’t you?” said the boy. He picked a long piece of grass and put it in his mouth.

  “And if I am, what’s it to you?”

  “Nothing, except I’m headed that way to see my father. I expect he’s still there,” explained the young man. “I’m Reggie Jay.”

  “You’re Mr. Jay’s son,” echoed Wolfe, and regarding the boy with pity realized he had to choose his next words carefully. There’s nothing more flammable than a hot-headed kid. “I don’t want you to worry, but your father might have a touch of botulism. Or salmonella, yes, it could be salmonella.�
�� Reggie met the statement with little concern and continued to gnaw on the blade of grass. “Either of the two can occur when someone eats food that is, well, bad,” Wolfe explained. “Your father ate some strawberries, delicious-looking strawberries if you like strawberries, but I’m afraid he is …” but before he finished his statement, a woeful expression alerted the boy to trouble.

  “Is what?” pressed Reggie, now leery of this sinister-looking stranger.

  Wolfe shrugged, “In bed.” For an instant, he wished he had not gone down this road; he wished he hadn’t met up with the boy and wished he could leave this damned island. He could check the ferry for himself and, if need be, pay someone, anyone, to take him back to the mainland. But that was all wishful thinking, and here he was, Mr. Do Goodie, placating this youth. “You know, you remind me of someone I know,” mumbled Wolfe. And with a trifle more empathy, he trudged back up the hill with the boy in tow.

  ***

  Wolfe was huffing and puffing when he reached the front door. His mouth was dry from explaining the situation, except the part he left out where everyone believed Jay was dead. But since the keeper wasn’t dead, it was irrelevant.

  “I’m not so sure I can go in,” Reggie stammered.

  “What do you mean you’re not sure you can go in?” Mr. Wolfe was feeling put out. His feet were tired, and the only reason he returned was to bring the boy to his father.

  “On account of I’m not supposed to be out.” The boy slowly raised his chin. “You see, I’m not supposed to be here, on account of…”

  “On account of what!” growled Wolfe. He released his hand from the knob and pushed the boy against the door.

  “On account that I stole some stuff, not very big stuff, just a few items that nobody was using.”

  “Great!” Wolfe said, and moving between the boy and the door, he turned and let himself in. “Do me a favor kid, see if you can bring a doctor. We’ll take care of your old man.” Awakened with the prospect of being in the proximity of a felon, he couldn’t take any chances with his parole, and with a quick shove, he pushed the approaching boy back and shut the door.

  “Who was that?”

  “What are you doing, lurking in the shadows?” Wolfe removed his hat and wiped his feet on the mat.

  “I’m not lurking, I heard voices outside, that’s all,” snapped Norman. “I came down for something to eat.” He held his hand out and displayed a half-eaten sandwich. “So, who was it?”

  “No one, I must have been talking to myself. I do that sometimes; a bad habit I picked up when I was away.” He stepped forward and brushed against the large man. “I would think you would get it.” His voice was low and sinister.

  “Yea,” sighed Norman finishing his last bite. “I get it; I get it all too well.”

  “Where’s everybody?” Mr. Wolfe reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  “Not sure?”

  “As a rule, the hostess should be the one to announce the next bit of our agenda, but seeing as she’s not around, what do you say we retire to the library?” Wolfe lit his cigarette and considered his next move. However, he didn’t have to think for very long. A shrill howl hurled from the top of the stairs down to the bottom rearranged the current state of affairs.

  “Oh my, oh my, he’s been murdered!” Goldie wailed. “Ray’s been murdered!”

  “Murder!” cried Wolfe and instinctively bounded upstairs towards the cry. A spontaneous opening of doors unleashed shouts of “what’s going on?”

  “Ray, dead?” Javotte cried out. “Are you sure?”

  “How perfectly horrible!” moaned Tisbe.

  “Of course, I’m sure, but if you don’t believe me, go see for yourself!” charged Goldie and pointing to the last open door she shivered. But it was not from fear. She was dressed in only a silk negligee and clasped the low-cut neckline between her fingers.

  “Here, dear,” motioned Dr. Cason, and snatching a bathrobe out of the bedroom, she slipped it over Goldie’s shoulders.

  “Don’t go over there, Javotte,” Tisbe ordered. “Don’t even look!”

  “It’s not what you think,” explained the old woman. “I went to his room to see if he needed anything and when he didn’t answer, I went in. That’s when I found him dead. We were just good friends, that’s all.”

  “Hmmm. Good friends, I bet you were,” scoffed Tisbe.

  “Ladies, please!” demanded Mr. Dover. “This is no time to squabble,” the portly guest added as he involuntarily moved into the hallway. For him, curiosity and gossip were akin to breathing.

  “Perhaps we should stop this tirade and attend to the matter at hand,” said Ms. Rosebud hobbling from her room. Grabbing hold of her lawyer friend’s arm, she led the meddlesome entourage down the hall, stopping short of entering the little man’s room. Only Goldie remained behind to dress. The mood was somber, although filled with a bit of eagerness. “Peri, you go in. The rest of us will stay out here,” said the hostess

  Lying across the bed was Ray Stiltskin wearing checkered pajama bottoms, a white undershirt, and the face of death. His head hung limply over the side of the mattress with a tightly wound cravat around his neck. It didn’t take an expert to see that the man had been strangled. Peri Cason was careful not to touch anything as she walked over the bedsheets that must have been thrown off the bed during the alleged attack. However, what appeared to be out of order was the position of the window. It was cold and rainy, too wet a day to open a window, but it was indeed open, wide enough for a person to slip in and out of. The lawyer examined the sill and kneeled over the carpet; it was damp. She ran her hand along several impressions made from something small and circular, a similar size to the feet of chair legs.

  “What’s going on in there?” pressed Mr. Dover poking his head into the room.

  “He’s dead alright,” Peri said. “To the best of my observation, he’s been strangled.”

  “Strangled!” cried Salisbury, ascending the staircase with reliable conformity. Dressed in a freshly starched uniform and polished shoes, he was the consummate houseman.

  “Yes, presumably with a red ascot,” remarked the lawyer.

  “Red ascot?” asserted Mr. Wolfe. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure, it’s still wound very snug around his neck,” explained the woman, irritated by the challenge

  Mr. Wolfe swallowed hard with the words weighted deep in his throat. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Goldie as Wolfe passed her on his way down the hall. “Hope it wasn’t those strawberries.”

  Chapter 6

  10 DAYS EARLIER

  Three carved figureheads hang on the tavern walls like deer heads over mantles. The black-eyed mermaid peering at the drinkers sitting beneath her buxom torso occupies a commanding spot above the bar; perhaps this is why the tavern was named The Drunken Mermaid. A devilish looking maiden with a broken off nose and waxy lips perches above the doorframe. And not to be overshadowed, a golden dragon with pearl-colored fangs is hanging between the two windows, just low enough to remind the patrons to duck their heads if they sit on either side of its extravagant neck. An occasional joker places his cap on its fiery head, at which point, everyone finds this amusing, except for Mr. Lee, the resident face-reader. To Mr. Lee, the dragon is more than a decoration; for him, it’s a friend.

  “Do you see that man over there?” Ms. Rosebud turned to look. “Not now,” whispered Dover with a sharp tongue. “He’s looking our way.”

  Ms. Rosebud ignored the warning and smiled warmly at Mr. Lee, who reciprocated with a gentle nod of the head. “Him? Why that’s Mr. Lee. He’s the harbor soothsayer.”

  Mr. Dover glanced over and frowned. “What’s he got on, a bathrobe?”

  “Don’t be so provincial, Harold. Your ignorance is staggering. It’s a changshan; the traditional robe worn by men.” She muttered ‘bathro
be’ under her breath and picked up her wine glass.

  “I still can’t believe you ordered wine in here. A beer maybe, but wine?” His voice was reproachful once again.

  “You know, if I had known you were a snob, I would never have agreed to come in. But seeing as this is the only tavern dockside, I thought you might like to take in the local sights. Next time, we’ll take a cab into town.”

  “Next time?”

  She looked at him with curious eyes and then blew him a kiss from across the table. If this kiss was designed as affection or sarcasm, it was immediately detected by Mr. Jay, who was sitting in the shadows just a few tables away. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and watched. “So,” he thought to himself. “Miss Rosebud’s got a secret.” He leaned over his drink and listened.

  “I have made all the arrangements and now just waiting for confirmation. Wolfe and Ms. Hildebrandt have confirmed. The two sisters are not sure, and the rest are maybes.”

  “Maybes?” Dover looked disappointed.

  “No confirmation either way,” she said. “But I suspect they’ll all take me up on the offer.” They sat in silence for a few minutes as they sipped their drinks. “You can stay over if you want.”

  “No, thanks,” explained the reticent man. “I need to get back to the office, and it’s a long drive home, especially since I have to come back in a few days.” The woman nodded with understanding.

  Mr. Jay took out his pocket watch, a gift from his late wife, and flipped it open. It was time he returned to the lighthouse. However, in a clumsy attempt to remain anonymous, his gangly legs and unchartered lap around the table gained the attention of the man and woman at the next table. “Beg yer pardon, Miss Rosebud,” the keeper said as he brushed against the back of her chair. And tipping his cap, he grinned like someone who had come upon something he shouldn’t have.

  “Why Mr. Jay,” exclaimed Ms. Rosebud, her voice ruffling as she spoke. “I didn’t see you come in.”

  “That’s ‘cause I was sitting over there,” he explained, pointing behind him. “But don’t mind me, Miss,” the salty dog replied. “You continue to enjoy yourselves. Nothing like a good drink on a warm afternoon. Wouldn’t you agree?” His interest had visibly quickened as he turned to Mr. Dover and grinned. He tipped up and back on his toes and whistled. “Warmer than usual.”