The Connecticut Corpse Caper

Apr 12

Apr 12 The Connecticut Corpse Caper

Book excerpt

Chapter One - The Arrival

“Hell” was the best word to describe the Moone Connecticut estate. The mansion resembled a demon’s lair and could serve as a horror film director’s dream setting. Dark and untamed, it promoted an underworld quality. Yet everything on the sweeping grounds also held a sense of harmony, as if the neglect, almost perfect in its precision, had been carefully executed.

A thick arc of dead rosebushes encircling a lopsided fountain of capering cherubs boasted stark, disconcerting symmetry while a large overrun garden, lifeless herb patch, and circular clump of dogwood possessed an oddly unsettling order. Situated on the far eastern corner of the estate was an elaborate stone gazebo enfolded by lifeless ivy twisted like sinewy, arthritic arms. Beyond it stood a perfectly aligned grove of cedars. With its unique aesthetic quality, the land was reminiscent of Futurist artist Giacomo Balla’s later figurative works.

Wind speed was zero and precipitation nil, and there was a subtle but pleasant hay-like scent in the air. It was quite warm for the middle of November in the Nutmeg State, but a chill capered up my spine nonetheless. I chuckled. Leave it to Mathilda Reine Moone (born Fonne), my ever enchanting and dotty aunt, to live in a pleasingly gruesome place like this. And leave it to her to devise this crazy one-week extravaganza, which involved several people having to remain on the deceased grande dame’s estate for seven days to each inherit two-hundred thousand dollars. Catch: the hundred-and-fifty-year-old house was haunted. A ghost named Fred roamed the upper hallways. Apparently he didn’t swing chains, moan or groan, or bang on walls, but he was known to belt out a mean round of “Little Brown Jug”.

Thomas Saturne, a Manhattan lawyer who’d overseen the reading of the will, had different theories as to who the six-foot-tall spook was: a) a nineteenth-century gun-and-whip wielding outlaw who’d fled north in an attempt to escape legal retribution; b) a lascivious servant who’d pissed off the stableman by playing house with said stableman’s wife; c) a hobo who’d snuck into the house and gotten trapped in a passageway or cubbyhole, or; d) a combination thereof.

The drive from Wilmington, North Carolina had been tiring, but then I’d only had about six hours of sleep in the last three days thanks to Tom and Ger, who’d suddenly become stricken with the flu (yeah, and there were Chinook winds in Cuba). Tom and Ger were fellow anchors at a local Wilmington television station where I worked as a meteorologist. The young, loud, self-absorbed sportscasters -- jocks -- got away with a lot because they were young, loud, and GQ good-looking.

Yes, I could have, should have, taken a flight, but a scenic drive promised more of an adventure. And truth be known, I wasn’t a keen flyer, not after having been on a Miami-bound plane that had been struck by lightning. Referring to that as one of the scariest moments of my life would have been an understatement.

To maintain energy on the trip here, I’d devoured a dozen Belgian chocolate truffles and four Cokes. When I’d stopped to stretch legs in Greenwich, two industrial-size creamy caffeine-infused drinks had put pep in my pace and oomph in my air. Four walkers, one French bulldog, and twin beagles at Greenwich Point Park were probably still determining if the entity they’d seen whiz past was a bird, plane, or person who’d sucked back a Red Bull four-pack.

Had I mentioned if all seven guests managed to stay the course, each one would receive the same amount? If one departed early, his or her share would be divided among the remaining lot. If six people departed, the last person standing would receive the whole shebang. And if everyone left? Select charities would share it all. How fabulously movie-time was that?

Speaking of movie-time, squatted on opposite ends of a long mold-flecked balcony were two chubby gargoyles. Even fifty yards back from the set-like façade you could see a ragged crack running the length of the leering face on the right. The one on the left appeared bored, like he was weary of sitting there for too many decades, and yet a hint of devilry showed in the cat-like eyes, as if he was waiting for the right moment to embark on mischief.

“Hey Floyd,” Cat’s Eyes said with an impish grin, “after all these years, my delivery’s finally cracked you up.”

“It’s not your delivery, Marv, it’s your stony, butt-ugly face.” Guffaw, guffaw.

Prime fodder for Two on a Guillotine meets Comedy Central or what? “Whadya think boys? Jill Fonne weather announcer cum comedy writer?”

The twins responded with baleful gazes.

Okay, no quitting the day job.

Civil dusk was about an hour away and the bright setting sun was an odd Mirabelle-plum yellow. I had to squint as the Chrysler Sebring glided down the remainder of a wide, winding driveway lined with desiccated shrubs, straggly weeping willows and crisp vivid autumn leaves. At the end rested that huge house in all its astonishing glory: a multi-winged neo-Gothic number that would send shivers of gleeful anticipation up and down the spines of paranormal seekers. All that was missing was pea-soup-thick fog.

A Bruno Mars song announced a call was coming through on my Smartphone as I drew up alongside a two-tone 1958 Bentley SI. Thomas Saturne’s, no doubt. Who else would drive a car like that? Not Mathilda Reine, deceased owner of the magnificent manse. She’d always been into sporty cars and had owned a few in her day, including a 308 GTsi Ferrari and a Jaguar XKR. Said she liked her cars like her men: long and fast. Mathilda Reine had never been one to mince words.

“You’re late, as always. We had lunch eons ago -- to which you were expected -- and we also finished tea. Where the frig are you? ”

“It’s great to be loved and missed. Be there in two my little Bundt cake. Kiss, kiss.”

My beau Adwin sounded pissed. He made it a habit to perpetually watch his language because he worked with people who cursed and swore too much; he claimed it made his naturally straight hair curl up like that of a Bichon Frise. The guy was everything you’d presume a pastry chef to be (introspective and creative and committed) and much like you’d expect a hair stylist to be (leaning toward the fey). But having been raised by four older sisters and two aunts could promote the “feminine” in anyone.

Not overly tall, but Ichabod-Crane skinny, it was hard to believe the guy could inhale a concrete-block sized chunk of wild-blueberry cheesecake and three caramel-cashew brownies in one sitting. Adwin was so not my type, but the two of us had been together two years. Everyone had said it wouldn’t last more than three weeks, which went to prove that people often did not know what they were talking about.

I shoved the paisley-skinned Smartphone into a glove compartment jammed with crumpled M&M wrappers, tissue packs, and a large can of liquid carbonated energy. The wireless contraption had spent enough time glued to my ears and thumbs over the last few days and I was tired of incessant talking and texting, catering to producers’ and sponsors’ egos, and working what felt like 24/7. And maybe I was also a little weary of being a meteorologist -- or weathergirl as the jock-guys would snicker. Don’t get me wrong. Despite the apathy that had kicked in recently, I still very much liked the work, although the hours could occasionally prove tough. Even if I was a morning person, three a.m. was a bit too morning sometimes. And guys like Tom and Ger had taken the wind out of my sails more than once. Now that I had arrived in Connecticut, however, I felt rejuvenated and strangely tempted to check out the history of the house and its former inhabitants.

In addition to telling viewers about weather conditions, I also covered interesting and fun events like fairs, pet shows, store and mall openings, and anything that fell under the local-interest umbrella. Being a meteorologist had its perks, like being privy to the latest news (some the public never heard), receiving freebies, and having people greet you at the market like you were a favorite cousin. On occasion, mind you, they could get vocal about having been told to wear a fleece sweater and not advised to sport galoshes.

I grabbed the energy drink and chugged warm fake berry-flavored bubbles, and grimaced. Taste: 0. Vigor: 1. Dear Aunt Mathilda. Most of the Fonne family considered her a kook. I’d always found her enjoyably eccentric. Matty, or Aunt Mat as I called her, was my mother’s sister, one of six. From oldest to youngest we had Mathilda Reine, Rowena Jaye, Ruth June, Jane Sue, Sue Lou, and Janis Joy. Think the names were funny? You should have met the duo who picked them: Jocasta Genvieve and Elmer Finkston Fonne. My grandmother (Gram JoGen to the family) had worked at her father’s small-town soda fountain on weekends and one sticky-sweet July afternoon the perpetual pranksters’ eyes met over a root-beer float and the rest, as the saying went, was history. My grandfather had spent the next thirty years as manager, general manager, and then vice-president of a company specializing in joke novelties and fun gizmos, many of which had graced Fonne mantels for decades.

At eighteen, Aunt Mat had met a quirky old-world gent with the stuffy name of Reginald Charles Moone IV. None of the Fonnes were overly keen about the relationship, particularly the fact Reginald Moone was twenty years her senior, but she married him regardless. Off to France they flew for a few months. She’d kept in touch with a couple of siblings, like my mother Janis Joy and her sister Rowena Jaye, and stuck her tongue (and finger) out at the rest of them. Maybe the family had been jealous that she’d found true love and/or married into wealth; it sure seemed like sour grapes to me.

Mom had only visited Matty once after she’d broken a leg and arm in a water-skiing accident twenty-seven years ago when I’d been five. We were living in Dallas at that time but eventually returned to Wilmington, the Fonnes’ original home base, where Mom opened a fairly successful “wellness” B&B. When the two-and-a-half-week visit to Connecticut was over, she’d come back ten pounds lighter and three shades paler, and had never spoken of the trip. Even talk of “Kooky Matty” became limited and the family figured the two sisters had had a falling out, but those in the picture (Aunt Rowena Jaye and me) knew they kept in touch regularly.

Aunt Mat had written me often, first via post and then later email, and called every few months over the years. She’d claimed I was her favorite, although she’d never explained if that was favorite niece, person, pen pal, or cracker-upper.

Were the others spending the seven days at the Moone manor -- a Thursday through Thursday affair to be precise -- “favorites” too? They had to be or why would they have been invited? There was Cousin Reynalda, Aunt Rowena Jaye’s only child who, as I’d stated, had also kept in touch with Aunt Mat, but to a lesser degree. Rey was a temperamental snot and an aspiring actress, California based these days of course. She got her start as a dancing drupe in a fruit-juice commercial and gigs as a hulaing ham, tangoing tomato, and waltzing widget followed. She moved on to small B-movie parts and was currently playing a conniving bitch on a second-rate dramatic show about a rich northern California town overrun by werewolves and zombies. In our younger years, when we got along, we did so famously; when we didn’t, claws lengthened and fur flew. This last decade we’d gotten along fairly well, probably because we’d matured enough to turn a blind eye to each other’s irritating mannerisms. That we only saw each other a few days a year probably didn’t hurt, either.

Aunt Mat’s will had stipulated Reynalda have Linda Royale, her best (inseparable) friend of six years, attend. It had also specified I bring my boyfriend, Adwin Byron Timmins. He’d caught a red-eye flight the previous night as I’d had to deliver six and seven a.m. sports highlights for Tom, who was probably on a beach somewhere with his brunette of the month. Aunt Mat had talked to Adwin on a few occasions and they’d always seemed to get along, maybe a little too well; more than twice I had had to pry the phone from Adwin’s bony fingers. And why had he never laughed that heartily at my jokes?

Other members of the Seven-Day Extravaganza Crew were Aunt Mat’s brother-in-law, London barrister Jensen Q. Moone, long-time neighbors and friends, sister and brother Prunella and Percival Sayers, and Thomas Saturne, the likely owner of the Bentley. Also along for the ride and possibly to ensure all ran smoothly because of her solid and sane business sense was Aunt Mat’s long-time friend, May-Lee Sonit. A successful business analyst turned successful antique shop owner, she was a handsome woman with smooth skin the color of a Starbucks Frappucino. The Pied Piper had flourished from the day she’d opened the shop’s bright cranberry-red doors in 1999. Her classic navy-and-gold ensemble whispered, didn’t scream, I’m-doing-extremely-well-thank-you.

There’d be a maid and butler who had been with my aunt practically since she came to Connecticut, which had to make them pretty damn old in my estimation, and a cook, who’d been in her employ over ten years.

Would Aunt Mat have made sure skeletons -- real ones -- were tucked into closets? Would she have placed severed rubber hands and heads in drawers and cupboards? Would there be luminescent ghouls and ghosts peering through mirrors and windows? Or would Fred be the sole spirit? The sweet old gal had always had a thing for murder-mystery weekends and whodunits and grand finales, so much so she’d made sure she’d gone out with a bang. The sexagenarian died with a splendid swoon at an opera -- Carl Nielson’s Masquerade. You might have thought of a fainting Scarlet O’Hara as she tumbled with great finesse over a balcony and landed ever so gracefully on the lap of a dumbstruck neurosurgeon. She’d made sure her funeral -- extravagant flower arrangements, well-regarded well-wishers and curious viewers, and music performed by a twenty-piece orchestra -- equaled a Kennedy or Rockefeller memorial service. A notable Shakespearian actor, one who’d preferred to keep his name out of the headlines (because of the stiletto and champagne episode perhaps), delivered the details of her will with the heart and soul of King Lear while Thomas Saturne had melted into a far wall with a groan and a grimace. This upcoming week, however, had to be the masterpiece.

I was starting to suspect that this mini trip wasn’t going to be so bad after all. In fact, it could end up being a lot of fun. If nothing else, down-time -- having been at a premium lately -- would be more than welcome.

I scanned the gray-stone structure that didn’t look like it belonged on this side of the Atlantic and took two deep breaths, turned off OneRepublic and the car, and tucked gloves and scarf into a tote. Grabbing a laptop and two Burberry carry-all bags, I marched up narrow steps leading to ebony-black doors. A dragon’s head door-knocker rested at chin level. What? No bloodshot eye peering through a peephole? No repugnantly repelling servant hovering beyond the lace curtains lining the oval window to the left of the doors? How disappointing. If you knew Aunt Mat like I knew Aunt Mat, you’d have expected something dramatic and over-the-top.