Weekends Can Be Murder, page 4
“I hope you’re right, because, being an entrepreneur in a small town, I can’t afford the kind of negative publicity he’s threatened to generate.”
“Small town?” He turned and gave her a puzzled look. “I thought you were from the city.”
“In a way I am, from Toronto by way of Standerville.” Pausing briefly, she explained, “I grew up on a dairy farm. After high school, I went to live in the city, where I’d heard things were exciting. I found a job in a travel agency downtown and an apartment I could afford in a run-down neighbourhood.” She paused. “Actually, that’s being charitable. The police were frequent visitors to our building, and I could hear sirens on the street several times a week. That kind of excitement I did not need, so I got myself a second job and a roommate and moved to a better place. For the next seven years, I worked both jobs and saved every penny I could, hoping eventually to put a down payment on a house in the ’burbs. Then, about four years ago, I read about this couple who were retiring and wanted to sell their travel agency in Standerville. I had my bags packed even before they’d accepted my offer.”
“What if they’d said no?”
“I would have found somewhere else to go. I’d had enough of the city at that point. It was way too much stress.”
“So how do you like small town life?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t lived in one long enough to find out.” He tilted his head quizzically at her. “Well, most of my business consists of conferences like this one, held at resorts in off-times. I organize AGMs and sales meetings, motivational retreats for corporate executives, and the occasional literary convention. I have to be there to make sure everything goes smoothly. Which means I’m not back in Standerville getting to know the locals.”
He nodded knowingly. “So I was right before. You’re still a city girl.”
“Okay,” she said, “I’ve told you all about me. Now what about you?”
“What about me?” he echoed.
“Well, for starters, what made you decide to become a firefighter?”
It was an ordinary enough question, but it appeared to have hit a sore spot. She heard pain in his voice as he replied, “When I was eleven, I lost my best friend in a house fire. His name was Thomas Kenneth O’Brien, but everyone called him T.K. The fire broke out at night, when the O’Briens were sleeping. They all died.”
Selena felt a pinch of guilt for bringing back bad memories. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“After the funeral, I stood at T.K.’s graveside and promised him that when I became a firefighter, I wouldn’t let any children die in fires. For some kids, wanting to be a firefighter is a phase they go through. Not for me. For me, it’s always been a mission.”
Selena couldn’t help recalling his earlier insistence on being alone to “sort things out”. “Listen, when we’re at Rafferty House this weekend—”
“I’ll try to participate.”
“That’s just my point. You don’t have to participate in the mystery game if you’d rather not. There are lovely grounds, and a beach. Or we could explore the house—it’s supposed to be incredible.”
He gave her a look. “We?”
She shrugged. “Well, I’m planning to see as much of Rafferty House as I can. If you’d rather not join me, that’s okay. But it’s been my experience that exploration is a lot more fun when you have someone to do it with.”
“This isn’t a Holmes and Watson thing, is it?”
“Absolutely not!” she declared, feigning horror. “It’s an Indiana Jones and Lara Croft thing.”
He laughed.
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” she said, the words tumbling out in a rush as she bounced to her feet. “The Windsong launch will be ferrying us to Rafferty Island, departing the marina at four-thirty sharp. Pack enough for the weekend, because it won’t be returning for us until Sunday afternoon. I’d better get back to the lodge. Aren’t you going to come have some lunch?”
“No, I think I’ll just sit for a while.”
Larry rested his arms along the top of the bench and watched her walk back up the beach, hips swaying and legs thrusting as the wind teased and ruffled her hair, and for just a moment he imagined she was his sister, and his heart constricted. He and Sara had been close when they were younger, before their parents died and the demands of careers and kids began pulling them apart. He missed that closeness now.
His therapist probably had a technical name for what Larry was feeling, and might even tell him it wasn’t real. But one thing was undeniably true. For whatever reason lay buried in his psyche, Larry was genuinely looking forward to sharing a murder mystery weekend with Selena Watt at Rafferty House.
Four
Antony Court was standing on the Rafferty Island dock, in character as major domo Cedric Vaile, to greet Arthur Pyke as he stepped off the motor launch.
“Well?” said Arthur. “How does it look?”
“This house is a very effective piece of theatre, sir,” Vaile said, speaking with the cultured accent of a traditional English butler. “It’s glamorous on the outside, but the interior is full of secrets hiding in dark corners.”
Arthur’s heart dropped. The foreman had promised him—! “Does it have what you need to stage the murder mystery?”
“Is it too late to cancel this event?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Then I shall just have to adapt the script. My players are trained to improvise. In fact, they’ve already begun. I’ll keep my distance from your family and avoid eye contact with them. We’ll make it work.”
“Listen, I’m sorry about that. It’s not what I intended.”
“I know. And what, if I may ask, do you have here?” Vaile added, pointing to the packing containers being steadily unloaded around them.
Arthur watched as a metal cooler was trundled along on a dolly. “Food. Dishes. Glassware. Cutlery.”
“Ah!” The other man nodded approvingly. “All the ingredients for a catered weekend. Very good planning, sir. By the way, the contractor is looking for you. Something about indemnity.”
“Indemnity?” Arthur knew what that word meant, and it didn’t bode well. “I’d better go find him,” he said. “Meanwhile, if you wouldn’t mind making sure all these crates and boxes arrive in the kitchen intact…?”
Vaile bowed from his shoulders. “Of course, Mr. Pyke. I am your major domo. Leave everything to me.”
Frank was on the second floor, supervising a clean-up. All hands were busy, folding and stacking drop sheets, collecting and sorting tools, and wielding brooms and cloths. When the helicopter arrived to pick up the collapsible dumpster currently sitting on the back lawn, all traces of the renovation crew would be gone. It would be done before the guests arrived at 5:00 p.m. That had been the deal.
“I’m impressed! The exterior looks almost exactly the way I remember it from my childhood,” Arthur said as he arrived at the top of the stairs. “You even landscaped the grounds. So, does this mean you managed to get everything completed?”
“No, but enough for now,” Frank replied, frowning. “We did what you asked and made it look finished, but only the north wing is actually inhabitable. You wanted fourteen guest rooms ready for occupancy by the weekend, and that’s what you’ve got, seven upstairs and seven down. The public areas ought to pass muster as well, now that they’re furnished. The kitchen isn’t pretty, but it’s functional. The well water is safe to drink. All the appliances are hooked up to the generators in the basement, and so are the indoor and outdoor lights, and the ceiling fans in the bedrooms. We’ve left enough propane in the tanks to keep everything running for the next few days, but the power may still be glitchy, and we haven’t installed the central air conditioning.”
“No air conditioning? But it’s August!”
The foreman shrugged. “I made a judgment call. Air conditioning is a nice touch, but it chews up a lot of energy. Besides, the timing was tight, we couldn’t do both A/C and plumbing, and I figured your guests would appreciate it more if the toilets worked in their en suite washrooms and they could take a shower if they wanted one.”
“Is the north wing up to code, at least?”
“As up to code as we can make it. But I don’t have the final word on that—the building inspector does, and we’re nowhere near ready to call one in. My advice? Pray for good weather so you can organize outdoor activities.” Frank handed him a clipboard thick with papers. “If you’ll just sign these, we’ll leave you to your fun.”
Arthur skim-read the top page. “Indemnification?” he read aloud.
“By your signature, you are acknowledging that you ordered the project to be halted before all the work was completed and/or inspected, and that you are personally assuming one hundred percent liability for anything untoward that occurs on the site from this point forward. You are insured for this, right?”
Arthur pinned a smile on his face. “Of course,” he lied, reaching for the pen in the foreman’s hand.
“Anyone who enters the house will have to be warned as well,” Frank added. “Otherwise, the liability becomes criminal. I’ve ordered my people to place signs all around the property. And—just a word to the wise—you should know that it’s an offence punishable by law to remove or alter them.”
“But they’re a formality, correct? You stand by the quality of the work your people have done? Nothing openly hazardous has been left behind, including in the unfinished part of the building? No live wires dangling, or holes in the floor, or any other sort of accident waiting to happen?”
“I’m not sure when we’ll be able to come back and finish the job, so no, my crew hasn’t left anything that could endanger a person just walking through.”
“In that case, may I suggest a wording for your signs?” said Arthur, genuinely smiling this time.
Five
“Watch your step there, sir. Careful, ma’am.” The crisply uniformed captain/crew of the Windsong motor launch swung into a practised routine, handing out the luggage of each passenger, followed by its owner, onto the sturdy wooden dock. There were six on this run: Hugh and Liz Sampson, Selena and Larry, and Norman and Blaise.
Like the other four Crime Clubbers, Selena had heard a great deal about the legendary summer house on Rafferty Island. She’d even gone online to find out more about it. Now, as she stood gazing up at the elegant building that crowned the terraced front lawn, she had to admit that, from the front at least, Rafferty House was living up to its billing. This was no summer cottage, nor even a rich person’s wilderness retreat. It was a piece of Pyke family history—a gracious Victorian estate, breathtakingly framed by clear blue sky above, sparkling blue water below, and colourful gardens and tasteful shrubbery on both sides.
Norman and Blaise were co-owners of a property development company—Norman was the trim, dapper, front-office manager, and Blaise was the bluff, hearty construction supervisor—so it came as no surprise to hear Norman remark quietly behind her, “Pyke must have dropped a bundle restoring this place. And he wants to turn it into a summer resort? His pockets had better be deep, then. The logistics alone will make it tough to get any return on his investment for at least the first ten years.”
“He didn’t just restore it, Norman,” Selena replied over her shoulder. “He rescued it. It’s a family heirloom. To the incredibly rich, something like this is the equivalent of an old watch or a hand-crocheted bedspread.”
“Ahem! Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?” Turning, Selena noticed the tall, fiftyish, blue-blazered man standing with military erectness at the upper end of the dock. When all the chattering had subsided, he said in a dignified British voice, “Welcome to Rafferty House. Your host for this weekend is Mr. Arthur Pyke, and I am Cedric Vaile, his major domo. We shall be doing all we can to ensure that your stay is pleasant and comfortable, as well as entertaining.”
At this point, Vaile’s right eye twitched in a nervous tic. Selena leaned toward Liz and whispered, “He’s met Gareth Wylde.”
“Unfortunately, we are not yet fully staffed,” Vaile continued, “and so I’m afraid I must ask some of you to carry your own luggage up to the house. We sincerely regret this temporary inconvenience.”
With that, he stepped forward and relieved the two oldest guests, Hugh and Liz Sampson, of their three matching suitcases. Then he turned smartly and started up the hill, leaving Selena, Larry, Norman, and Blaise to fend for themselves.
As Selena bent to pick up her overnight bag, Liz tapped her arm and whispered back to her, “He’s met Gareth Wylde and it’s driven him to drink.” In response to Selena’s questioning stare, Liz mouthed the words whisky breath.
So the butler drank? A thrill raced through Selena as she realized: this had to relate to the murder mystery. Apparently, the role-play had already begun.
The front of Rafferty House was even grander when seen up close. An open veranda, gingerbread-trimmed and tastefully ornamented with box planters and lounge chairs, covered easily as much floor space as the average single-family home. The double entrance doors were oak, with polished brass fittings. Everything looked brand new and freshly painted. And there was a stencilled sign on a post driven into the ground beside the front steps: Warning! These premises may be dangerous. Anyone entering does so at their own risk.
What a perfect way to signal the start of a murder mystery weekend!
“Your quarters are in the upper north wing,” Vaile told them. “Please follow me.”
Staring and murmuring, the Crime Clubbers entered a spacious foyer lined with vintage photographs and posed family portraits in ornately carved wooden frames. Some looked as though they dated back to the 1860s. A broad sweep of runnered hardwood stairs led to the second floor. As she climbed them, Selena glimpsed details of the interiors of three large main floor rooms: an impressive fieldstone fireplace in one, a long, gleaming table (made of mahogany, she guessed) in another, and a massive desk, probably an antique, in the third. To their right at the top of the stairs and down a wainscotted corridor with stained glass ceiling fixtures lay a series of numbered doors. It was as though they had stepped back in time. Selena half-expected Sherlock Holmes himself to lean out into the hall, violin in hand, to investigate the commotion.
With brisk but respectful efficiency, Vaile deposited all six guests in the four rooms at the end of the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he then announced in a deeper, almost sepulchral tone of voice, “in one hour, if all goes well, a formal dinner will be served in the main dining room. You will find it downstairs, between the drawing room and the parlour.”
If all goes well? Selena couldn’t help recalling the way Gareth Wylde had harassed the kitchen workers at Windsong. Perhaps he was doing it here as well. If the rumours were true and Wylde was the intended murder victim, there would doubtless be an abundance of motive for the crime, and plenty of suspects to question.
Selena’s room was the last one on the right, directly across the hall from Larry’s. He made a mental note of that before closing his door.
Once alone, he took a moment to inspect his surroundings before unpacking. His first impression of the room was that it was old-fashioned, but not old. The wallpaper above the cherry wood wainscotting was printed with a pale floral wreath pattern, but the colours were clean and unfaded. The lacy white curtains on the window were pristine as well; and when he lifted the edge of the matching bedspread on the four-poster, he found a modern mattress and box spring beneath it.
Larry’s second impression was that, considering the overall size of the house, the room felt a little small. When he went to gaze out the window, he discovered why. The sill was much deeper than expected. In fact, the space between the outer and inner walls looked to be about twice the normal width. Concerned, he searched the ceiling, then relaxed when he found the smoke alarm, its power light flashing green, tucked up against the base of the overhead light fixture.
Fire loved to play hide and seek inside the walls of buildings. This house gave it plenty of elbow room.
Larry moved to the bed and began to unpack his toiletries. He nearly dropped his shampoo and shaving cream on the floor when he spotted the porcelain chamber pot in the corner behind the door.
Really? How could a millionaire’s house not have indoor plumbing?
Then he noticed the recessed handle in the wall beside the closet. Sure enough, it belonged to the entrance of a modern three-piece washroom. Tricky, very tricky, he thought as he arranged his things on the rattan caddy beside the pedestal basin.
Stepping out again, he stopped, sensing a change in the room. Its shape was somehow different. There was a new smell in the air, a shadow that hadn’t been there before.
Then he saw it. A piece of his wall beneath the wainscotting had swung away just a fraction, like a secret door beckoning him to come and investigate.
Yeah, right.
Larry sat down on the bed, shaking his head in disbelief. No wonder Arthur Pyke was having a murder mystery party here. Hallowe’en was probably a fun time for him too.
Well, Larry Holmes wasn’t going to play this game. He was going to pull a clean pair of slacks and his sports jacket out of his suitcase and dress for dinner. After dinner, he and Selena would go for a walk, maybe explore the wooded area and beach he’d seen through his window…
Voices. Faint voices were drifting into his room from the little door in his wall. They were definitely not those of Norman and Blaise next door. These voices belonged to a man and a woman, and they sounded angry.
Larry was becoming rather irritated himself. Was everyone in the house being baited this way? Or maybe this was some kind of dream, like his nightmares about T.K. and Tamara…?
No. He was fully awake. The voices were real. And his patience was wearing thin.
He crossed to the door, intending to pull it closed, but couldn’t. There was no handle of any kind on the door itself, and no button or switch or concealed pressure plate on the wall around it. Larry took a step back, and as he did, the door opened wider. Clearly, this hidden entrance wasn’t taking no for an answer.
