MURDER at CRAWFORD HOUSE (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 3) (9 page)

              "What do we know about Bertie Sommersville?"

              It was a serious question, intended to spark a dialogue. Del didn’t seem to want anything to do with it. Ever since the nighttime visit to Bertie's dead body, she'd been somewhat aloof to Allie and her confidence.

              She looked up from her phone. "Still no service, but at least I can play a couple of games."

              "Did you hear what I said?"

              "You said 'What do we know about Bertie?'"

              "Do you have a problem with this?"

              Del put down her phone. "Yes. Yes I do. You can’t leave matters well enough, can you? You're meddling where you shouldn’t be, having forgotten that it once almost got you killed and another time probably could have gotten you killed. If you don’t mind, I'd rather not aid and abet my friend in her suicide, that's all."

              She picked up her phone and resumed her game.

              "I didn’t know you felt that way."

              Del threw her phone down. "Battery's almost dead. I forgot to charge it last night. At least we have electricity."

              "I really didn’t know you felt that way, Del."

              "Yeah, well I do."

              "I can’t help it. You know, after Tom died, I was lost. I really was. I thought I could be the Martha Stewart of Verdenier. How could I have been so foolish as to think that would ever fulfill me in any way? Lately, I've been getting the feeling that I somehow missed my calling in life. I care about people, and I like to be of some use to them. If you aren’t of any use to anyone, you may not be leading the fullest life possible. Anyway, that's my theory. You can take or leave it. All I know is, right now I need you by my side. I have no one else. I'm stuck here in this haunted house and there's a crime that has been committed, I'm sure of it. I need your help."

              Del stared at her friend.

              "What do we know about Bertie?"

              Allie smiled at her. "Yes."

              Del pursed her lips and thought. "According to you, he's fallen on hard times."

              "Go on."

              "I'm going on. Even though he's fallen on hard times, his manner of dress and his hygiene appears as though it's all part of an effort to disguise the fact that he's fallen on hard times."

              "Right."

              "He's suspected of being a fence."

              "Go on."

              "That's all I got. Oh, and he and Jürgen had this big falling out."

              "How'd you know that?"

              "Simple deduction."

              "Tell me."

              Del rolled her eyes. "I read your journal when you were in the shower."

              Allie laughed, a genuine, heartfelt, oh-so-needed laugh.

              "Glad to see I still amuse you."

              "I could hug you right now."

              "Don't. I think I still have garlic breath, despite having brushed my teeth."

              Something clicked in Allie's mind. It was a remnant from the previous night's stream of consciousness thought processes.

              "Garlic."

              "Yes, garlic."

              "I don’t know if I told you this or not. I can’t remember. But Bertie's mouth smelled of a combination of garlic, mint, and cinnamon."

              "Ok, gross, and you didn’t tell me. And, gross."

              "It may be gross, but it's a fact. And there are clues there."

              "Such as?"

              "Such as each dinner course had a variety of flavors, but not one of them had mint or cinnamon. Not even the desserts."

              "Ok."

              "We know he brushed his teeth. That accounts for the mint. What accounts for the cinnamon?"

              She squinted at Del as if trying to see an answer somewhere in the woman's features.

              "Breath freshener?"

              "That's what I was thinking," said Allie, a nervous twinge tightening her gut. "I
knew
that room was too empty. I felt around in Bertie's pockets and there was nothing there. So now I'll ask: Where are the breath mints? Or in this case, the breath cinnamons?"

              "You're asking me?"

              "I'm asking everyone. Where are they? They weren't in the bathroom garbage. You want to know what I think? I think someone got rid of them. I think there was a space in Bertie's little grooming kit that would have held a package of breath fresheners. And I think someone went into it and took them out so they wouldn’t be discovered."

              "Why?"

              "Duh! Because they were
poisoned
."

              It was at this precise moment that they heard a bloodcurdling scream come from some room down below.

              With adrenaline shooting her veins, Allie went downstairs to investigate, with Del following right on her heels. It took them a minute or so to find their way through the downstairs maze of rooms, but they finally found the source: It was Molly. She was in the greenhouse.

              And Brother Al's body lay amongst the flowers.

              The body lay on its side in what looked like a fetal position, only more rigid than that. It looked to Allie as though the man had died in a crouching position. He looked the way Bertie had looked: like he'd not gone peacefully.

              There was nothing in his pockets, Allie discovered. But he did have a cell phone on him. She swiped it open. No password required.

              "What are you doing?" said Jürgen.

              She continued without looking up. "Looking to see if he'd tried to call anyone. The last call he made was about fifteen minutes ago. The contact is 'MB'. Anyone know who that might be?" She looked up at her audience.

              No one answered.

              She thought for a moment. "Marianist Brotherhood," she said, and tapped the number to call it again. No service. She looked back at the previous call Brother Al had made. "It only lasted twelve seconds. He may have gotten through. We should keep trying."

              She took another look at the number of the Marianist Brotherhood.

              "He couldn’t have gotten through," said Larry. "I've been trying 911 ever since last night."

              "The snow," Allie said with sudden insight. "We could leave a message in the snow. Brother Al's snowshoes are just outside the door. One of us could put them on and tramp a message, something like 'Call 911' in letters big enough for a helicopter to see."

              "That's ridiculous," said Molly. "Are you really serious? You are, aren’t you?"

              Allie stared at her, and then shifted her gaze toward the rest of the guests, making eye contact with each. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing and hearing – or not hearing. A great suggestion and no one was jumping at it. Was this the Orient Express? Were they
all
guilty?"

              "I'll do it," said Del, raising her hand.

              Allie felt like jumping up and hugging her. "The shoes are right outside. They'll be a little awkward, but they should at least have adjustable straps on them. In the meantime, I'll keep trying to call 911."

              "How did he die?" said Rachel Forrester.

              "I don’t know. Heart attack?"

              "Two heart attacks in twenty-four hours?" said Larry Gordon.

              "It's not impossible. Improbable, maybe, but not impossible. It looks like he took a midday stroll through the garden, stooped down to have a look at the flowers down here on the ground, and then...fell over."

              "I think I need a drink," said Jürgen.

              "Yes, I think there's no need for all of us to be hanging around here," Larry said. "The only thing we can do is pass the time until we're able to get help. Sun's out now. No doubt the plows are running. Cell phone service will return soon, I'm sure."

              "Right," said Allie, "but in the meantime, perhaps it's best if we..." she shuddered to think of the implication of what she said next. "...if we all remain together, within sight of one another."

              "Are you serious?" said Molly, using the same tone of incredulity she'd used before.

              "Deadly serious," Allie said. "Wait till Del gets back, then we'll all go into the drawing room together."

#

              The drawing room turned out to be the perfect place to meet. Out of all the rooms in Crawford House, it was certainly the least claustrophobic, unless you were a T-Rex.

              They sat around sullenly.

              "Can we at least maybe get some books?" asked Jürgen.

              "Of course," Allie said, "but take a buddy."

              "The buddy system?" said Rachel Forrester. "That's ridiculous. No one here's a murderer, Allie."

              "I didn’t say anyone was. I was merely implying that there may be danger somewhere in this house and we all had better watch out for one another."

              It was a good save. Given her history with Rachel, the last thing she needed was for the woman to think she was under any suspicion. She could see it happening like a domino effect: Rachel flies off the handle at being accused, brings up the past when Allie suspected her in Tori Cardinal's murder; then the rest of the guests quietly turn away from her, and the real culprit gets lost in the silence.

              "Can we bring something back for anyone?" said Jürgen.

              No one answered. Allie herself sat silently while he and Rachel went off to the library.

              Silent, but not idle.

              When she caught a glimpse of the brotherhood's number, she'd used an old mnemonic trick she'd learned when she was younger. The exchange was the same for all of this area, so that was easy to remember. The last four digits were 5679. She'd gotten two pictures in her head: Don Larson of the Brooklyn Dodgers, and the movie,
Tess
. Her husband having been a rabid baseball nut, she knew a great deal about the game's history, particularly the records. 1956 was the year Don Larson pitched the first no-hitter in a World Series. 1979 was the year
Tess,
with Nastassja Kinski, came out. Put the two dates together and you got 5679. She plugged the number into her own phone and saved it under 'MB'.

              She called it. Nothing. No service still.

              Allie cursed under her breath.

              "This is utterly useless," said Molly Townsend. "I don’t see why I have to be a prisoner in my own house. No one has been murdered. An unfortunate coincidence is what we have here and nothing else."

              Allie said calmly, "That may be true, but—"

              "
May
be true? What are you? The police?"

              "No, ma'am."

              "Well then stop acting like the police!" Molly's furor was passionate to say the least, terrifying to say the most. Her eyes were wide and stabbing, her mouth tight and her teeth just barely clenched.

              "Very well," said Allie. "Then we'll all just proceed with caution from here on in. Don’t say I didn’t warn you."

              Molly left with an indignant huff. The rest of the guests stood up, looking carefully at one another.

#

              It was the universal consensus that sticking together was useless. The guests had dispersed, one choosing to remain in the general vicinity, another going off to the library, and Allie and Del going back to their room.

              This corner of the upstairs was a safe haven. Something about the décor, the placement of the room, and the openness of it – it was relaxing and stimulating at the same time.

              Allie paced as Del tried her phone.

              "It's high time we paid a visit to Brother Al."

              Del looked up in anguish. "Not again."

              "Oh calm down. You're not going with me."

              She breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God."

              "You're going to be the diversion."

              "Oh, terrific."

              "It's an improv gig."

              Del's face lightened. "Well why didn’t you say so in the first place?" Del, as an actress, was nothing if not an authentic ham.

              "You up for a show?" asked Allie.

              "Anytime, sister."

#

              "Oh God, oh...oh no!" Del's voice increased in volume and intensity. "It's happening again! Somebody help! Help!"

              "Good," whispered Allie, "more. Louder."

              Del took direction well. "Someone!"

              "Somebody, help!" yelled Allie.

              Larry Gordon came running in first, his face a mask of panic. "What is it?"

              "It's happening again!" said Del.

              "What is it? What's happening?"

              "We need more people!" cried Allie. "Get everyone in here! She's having a traumatic flashback."

              "Oh no!" cried Del. "They're coming! I know it!"

              "What is this?" said Larry.

              Allie spoke quickly and with authority. "Years ago, a couple of years after we graduated, Del was involved in a mild fender bender with a teenaged boy who was drinking and driving his father's car without a license. He was thrown in juvie hall. His friends vowed revenge against Del. They showed up at one of her performances and booed her off the stage."

              Larry looked puzzled. "Is that it?"

              "Oh my...here they come! Help!"

              "Look at her!" screamed Allie. "Does this look insignificant? The incident was obviously traumatizing. In times of great stress, the stress acts as a trigger and brings back the horror of that one performance."

              Del looked at Larry, her face twisted with horror. "Are they here? They’re here, aren’t they? You have to help."

              "We need more people in here. She needs to see the faces of old friends. Get everyone in here!"

              Larry ran out of the room to summon the rest of the guests.

              "Doing great," Allie whispered.

              "So are you," returned her friend. "But I swear to God, if you upstage me—"

              Allie shushed her. Larry was returning. Molly, Jürgen, and Rachel were following close behind.

              "...a sort of post-traumatic episode," Larry was saying. "She needs to see friendly faces."

              "The lights!" cried Del. "They’re so bright! So many teenaged boys!" Her face was beet red, and real tears began to flow. Allie was decidedly impressed.

              Allie waved her arms. "Everyone gather round. Smile. She needs to see smiles."

              The group did as she instructed. Allie smiled too. Del looked up at them, sniffling, her eyes puffy and wet, and looked as though she was trying to smile back.

              "Are you all real?" Del said.

              "We're real, sweetheart," said Jürgen.

              Del threw her head back. "The lights! They're burning my face off!"

              "She thinks they're spotlights," Allie said softly. She pointed to the ceiling. "Larry, shut these off."

              "That's my cue! Help! I can’t remember my lines!"

              "How long does this usually last?" asked Rachel Forrester.

              "I don’t know," said Allie. "Could be minutes, could be hours."

              "Hours?"

              "The times I've seen it, it's only lasted about fifteen minutes."

              "Well what are we supposed to do?" said Molly.

              "The lights!"

              "For Heaven's sake, Larry! Shut those lights!"

              Larry darkened the room. The clouded sun cast a gloomy set of shadows across the floor and on everyone's faces.

              Del's voice became a panicked rasp. "Where is everyone? Do you hear them? Teenage boys! So cruel! So very, very cruel!"

              "It's ok," said Jürgen. "We're your friends here. Nobody is heckling you."

              "Heckling me? Heckling me! I hear them! Yes! Oh, someone make it stop!"

              "I've never seen it this bad," said Allie. "She's got medicine for this upstairs, but she needs it prepared."

              "Prepared?" said Larry.

              "It's a tincture. You add it to boiling water."

              "Boiling!" cried Del. "My legs! They’re boiling hot! I see flames!"

              "I'll get her medicine and prepare the tincture," said Allie. "And I'll get her a cold compress while I'm at it. But I need you all to stay with her. Promise me you'll stay."

              "Stay! Stay! Don’t walk out on me! The boys! The boys!"

              "We're here," said Larry.

              Allie stood up and was about to walk off, when she turned around and said, "This is going to sound odd, but does anyone here know 'American Pie'?"

              "The song?" said Rachel.

              "Yes. It's Del's favorite. If you all sing it quietly to her, it will soothe her. I've actually done it before. It will help, trust me."

              The group looked at one another. It was Jürgen who began the chorus, in his shrill, trumpet voice. "
Byyyye, byeeee
..."

              The rest joined in reluctantly.

              "Yes!" cried Del. "You're drowning them out! Keep singing!"

              Allie had a lot of trouble keeping it together. She put a hand over her mouth as she padded away quickly.