1 Death Pays the Rose Rent (5 page)

A short, plump woman in the second row stood and reported that the doughnut mix had arrived and been divided among the two churches and the synagogue. Prisoners had already been released from the county jail to make the doughnuts; they would work right on through Friday night under the supervision of the doughnut committee and would even continue cooking all day Saturday if people wanted more doughnuts to take home.

“Thank you, Mrs. Seligman. I do hope someone is watching the prisoners more carefully this year. Didn’t you lose two last year?”

Mrs. Seligman turned pink. “They will all be sleeping in the Community Room at the synagogue. The rabbi is personally taking responsibility for watching them, Miss Thorne.” She sat down.

“Coffee committee?”

“All taken care of. We have decided to offer decaffeinated this year as well as our regular blend.”

“Wonderful. The insomniacs of Lickin Creek will thank you for that, Mrs. Wright. You will also make sure we have enough paper cups this year, won’t you? Remember our population has grown, and it’s not unreasonable to expect some tourists to show up.”

“We’ve got enough, but we think the napkins should be the responsibility of the cream and sugar committee since it doesn’t have nearly as much to do.”

Sylvia looked at Father Burkholder, who nodded.

A short, round man, wearing a wide-lapelled, blue pinstripe suit of World War II vintage, stood up. He had little dandelion puffs of hair over his ears. Unlike

the hunk next to me, this was a genuinely elderly gentleman. He cleared his throat and, when he was sure he had everyone’s attention, pronounced, “I think it is time that this committee consider the poor unfortunates of our community—those who are overweight, have diabetes, or other serious health problems, which preclude the use of sugar in their coffee. It seems only fair and just that we provide an artificial sweetener for these people in the event that they should wish to partake of it. Therefore it is my desire to make a motion that—”

“Thank you, Judge Parker,” Sylvia interrupted. “I think the matter can be handled by the cream and sugar committee without a formal motion. Right, Father Burkholder?”

The priest stared out the window, but indicated he would accept another duty by a semi-nod of his head.

Sylvia picked up the vase of rosebuds and held it above her head so everyone in the room had a good view of it. “As you can see, I already have the roses. American Beauty. By Saturday, they should be in full and glorious bloom. Many thanks to Fowler’s Flowers for their generous donation. Well now, that takes care of the daytime festivities. As you know, this year we have added something new. The grand finale of the day will be a Champagne and Caviar Mystery Dinner right here at the castle. The Whispering Pines Summer Theatre has graciously provided its professional services for this gala evening, including the writing of an original mystery, which will have its premiere performance right here in Lickin Creek.

“I am indeed proud that the director of the Whispering Pines Summer Theatre is none other than the youngest member of my family, Michael Thorne.” She paused and pointed dramatically at me. No, it wasn’t me, but the dreamboat sitting next to me.

He got up and went over to hug and kiss Sylvia. His silver hair was exactly the same color as hers.

He didn’t begin to speak until the polite applause subsided. A typical actor, I thought.

“I really don’t want to tell you much about the exciting, wonderful Mystery Dinner we have planned for you. I’ll only say that it will be a fun-filled evening of interaction—you, the members of the audience, will all be involved. You’ll look for clues, interview suspects, and find the murderer. And I promise you that the dinner will be a true Lucullan banquet, catered by a famous New York restaurateur. The members of the winning team will all win season passes to the Whispering Pines Summer Theatre. I hope all of you here will purchase your tickets tonight, as we plan to limit attendance to one hundred people.”

He sat down to more applause. “Tickets, as you know, are fifty dollars,” Sylvia announced. “The profits will go to the Thorne Cultural Fund, which my sister, Rose, and I have established in order to bring a cultural event to the people of Lickin Creek every year. I expect each of you to support this worthwhile endeavor. The meeting is now adjourned. You may purchase your tickets at the table in the back of this room and then move into the dining room for refreshments.” She whacked the poor table one last time with her gavel.

Michael Thorne turned to me. “I really did like your book,” he said. “I went out and bought it after I saw you on ‘Wake Up, New York.’ That show was an absolute riot. I don’t know who was funnier, the big-bosomed bimbo with the double-digit IQ, or you trying to correct all the asinine things she was saying.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. I thought the whole interview was such a disaster that no one would ever want to read the book.”

“You sounded intelligent and interesting. And when you did get a chance to say something about the book, it sounded a lot better than that ridiculous title would lead one to believe.”

“Picked by someone else. As a first-time author, I wasn’t in any position to argue.”

He took my hand, and my heart did a little somersault.

“I’d like you to meet my mother,” he said.

“I had that pleasure when I first came in,” I told him, my hand still in his.

“That was my aunt Sylvia,” he said with a grin. “My mother has been over there by the fireplace all evening.”

He pointed to an old woman who sat on a Victorian love seat, her knees covered with a pink crocheted lap rug. She was wearing a long, pink silk dress, and despite the July heat, she had a pink shawl draped over her shoulders. After the Thornes I had already met, I expected another silver head, but this Thorne had red hair that made Lucille Ball’s curls look drab.

Michael Thorne obviously enjoyed my surprise. “She used to be a real redhead. That’s why my grandfather named her Rose. I’m sure everyone was relieved when her sister was born with the family’s famous white hair so they could use the name Sylvia again.” As he spoke, he led me through the crowd until we were standing before the vision in pink.

“Mother, I’d like you to meet a new friend, Tori Miracle. Tori, my mother, Rose Thorne.”

I liked the fact that he remembered from the TV interview to call me Tori.

I took her dried-up hand and used my best party voice to say, “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Thorne.” Richard would have been proud of me.

She squeezed my hand with surprising strength and chuckled. Her voice was deep, and although she spoke softly, it carried like an actor’s to the far corners of the room. “It’s not Mrs. Thorne. It’s Miss, or Ms., as you people say today. Like my sister, I never found a man who could put up with me.” She grinned at Michael. “It’s just been me and my little bastard, together against the world. Right, my dear?” She chuckled again.

“I really prefer not to be called a bastard, Mother,” Michael replied curtly. This was obviously a subject that had been a point of contention for a long time.

“Nothing to be ashamed of. There’s lots of people who have the bar sinister across their shields. Let’s go get some goodies.” Rose tossed aside her lap rug and stood up, and I found myself looking up—way up at

her. She was as tall as her sister, although not quite as stocky. She led the way across the room, and we followed obediently, like two new recruits behind a Par-ris Island drill instructor.

CHAPTER 5 

Sylvia was expertly herding her guests in different directions. Some, after having bought their Mystery Dinner tickets, were sent across the hall into the dining room where they received a paper cup full of punch before being ushered efficiently toward the front door. Others were discreetly directed to go into a small sitting room next to the drawing room. Nobody escaped without buying a ticket.

Michael and I followed his still-chuckling mother into that room. She must have thought she’d said something very funny. I told Michael that the joke escaped me.

“Just your typical small-town family scandal,” he said in an offhand manner. “If you stick around longer than twenty-four hours, someone will be bound to tell you all about it.” He smiled, but I could tell he wasn’t pleased.

Richard was standing on a rickety wooden ladder in front of the fireplace, hammer in hand, attempting to hang the painting Alice-Ann and I had carried over. The nurse stood on a chair next to him, peering behind the picture at the hooks on the wall and giving him directions.

“A little higher—over to the left a little—no, no, too much—it needs straightening.”

Sylvia stood in the doorway putting in her two cents. “It’s too low—twist the wire a little—that will raise it. It’s listing to the left. Don’t drop it!” This last sentence was a shout as the ladder tilted dangerously and almost fell over backward.

Richard’s upper lip was covered with beads of sweat, and his face was turning that ugly purple with which I was rapidly becoming familiar. Hypertension would kill him yet!

Others in the room stood around the ladder offering such advice as: “Don’t you think it would look better over the couch?” “Move it over at least six inches to the right.” “It should be lower, you have to lean way back to see her face.”

At last it was hung to almost everyone’s satisfaction, and we were all free to admire the portrait of a breathtakingly lovely young woman, and of course, the carved silver frame that Alice-Ann had recently repaired.

Sylvia gushed, “Ladies and gentlemen—my great-grandmother, the original Sylvia Thorne.”

There was some scattered applause.

She had been a beautiful woman, if the painting was at all accurate. She appeared to be no older than twenty and stood in a garden, holding a pink rose in one hand and a large picture hat in the other. Her gown of white organdy, or some similar sheer material, flowed softly over her slender figure. She had

eyes of brilliant blue and hair so startlingly white that I would have thought it a wig if I hadn’t already met her descendants.

For me, though, the most interesting feature of the painting was the necklace she was wearing, because it was so ornate in contrast to the simplicity of her gown. It appeared to be a chain of flowers created from hundreds of diamonds. Hanging from the chain was a sapphire pendant as big as an egg, set in a circle of more diamonds.

“She’s beautiful,” I murmured to Michael. “And so is that diamond and sapphire necklace.”

“When I was a kid, I used to daydream about her,” he told me. “I kept hoping that I’d meet someone that beautiful someday.” He gave a wry little laugh. “I finally did—Elizabeth Taylor. I like to think they would have had a lot in common—both famous beauties and both the owners of some fabulous jewels. By the way, that isn’t a sapphire in the necklace. It’s a rare blue diamond, believed to be cut from the same Tavernier diamond as the famous Hope diamond that’s in the Smithsonian museum. Family legend says that the original stone belonged to poor Marie Antoinette and was stolen during the French Revolution. The diamond was cut into two smaller stones, and both were found in London in the 1830s. This one was eventually named Sylvia’s Star, in honor of its lovely owner.”

“Is it in a museum now?” I asked.

“I wish. Unfortunately, it seems to have carried the same curse as its sister stone, the Hope diamond. During the Civil War, about a year after the Battle of Gettysburg, the Confederate army came through Lickin Creek and occupied it for a while. They threatened to burn the town down unless the local citizens turned over all their money and livestock.

“The townsfolk abandoned Lickin Creek to the rebs, and many of them sought shelter here at Sil-verthorne, which was far enough off the main roads to have escaped notice by the enemy. A few weeks later, the Army of the Potomac chased the rebs out of the area and the villagers were able to go home. The day they left, Sylvia was discovered dead in her bedroom. Her head had been crushed, and the necklace was gone. No one ever saw it again, or at least admitted to having seen it. It was assumed that Confederate soldiers broke in to steal the necklace and killed her when she surprised them in her bedroom.”

“Wouldn’t it be more logical to have suspected somebody from Lickin Creek? After all, the castle was full of them for weeks, and they probably all knew about the necklace.”

“Bite your tongue, Ms. Miracle. Do you really think anyone would have pointed an accusing finger at one of their neighbors when there was a whole, wicked Confederate army out there to blame?” His eyes twinkled as he looked down at me. They were so blue I felt as though I could swim in them.

“Silly me! What could I have been thinking of?” What I was thinking was: married or gay?

“Is your wife here tonight?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“No. Briana’s appearing in The Belle of Amherst at

the theatre this week. But you’ll get to meet her this weekend.”

That explained why the big TV star Briana Evans was doing summer stock in the mountains of Pennsylvania. It was definitely time to change the subject.

“You know, Michael, I keep thinking we’ve met somewhere before. Have we ever crossed paths in New York?”

“We couldn’t have, because I know I’d remember you. But you might have seen me in some of my more memorable TV performances. Most recently I was the dancing tomato in a Burger King ad. Last year I wowed the critics with a brilliant toothbrushing sequence, and I have had a long run in a magazine commercial where I offer free telephones to each new subscriber. It still runs on late-night TV during the old-movie reruns; I think it has the potential to become a real cult classic, sort of The Rocky Horror Picture Show of commercials.”

“That’s it,” I exclaimed. “I knew I’d seen you somewhere. I’m an old-movie fan—I stay up just about every night to watch the late-late shows. I’ve suffered through that magazine commercial many a time.”

“At least you don’t do what most people do and use the time to go to the bathroom or get a snack.”

“Well, maybe sometimes …”

We laughed together. “I love the oldies, too,” he said. “My very favorite of all time is The Day the Earth Stood Still:’

“That one was great. Do you remember what Patricia Neal had to say to the robot to stop him from destroying the world?”

“Let’s see … I think it was, ‘Gort, Klaatu bara …’ “ He was interrupted by the nurse, who was clumping over to us in her Nikes, carrying drinks on a silver tray.

Michael kissed her on the cheek. “LaVonna,” he said. “You look younger every time I come home.”

She blushed with pleasure.

“Tori, this is LaVonna Hockenberry. She’s been the housekeeper here at Silverthorne for over thirty years.”

“Housekeeper? Aren’t you a nurse?”

They both burst out laughing. “What did I say?” I asked.

“You’uns must of thought my prayer bonnet was a nurse’s cap,” LaVonna told me. “Lot of outsiders do. It’s worn by all the adult women in my church to show our respect for God.”

“I’m sorry,” I began, but she stopped me with a warm smile.

“No need to feel bad. You’ll see lots of us’ns around here—and Amish and Mennonites, too. This dress is special—made for my church. But the running shoes is my own idea. Lots of ground to cover in a place this big. Specially now I’m the only one left. Used ta be different—servants everywhere, and gardeners, lots of them.”

She turned her attention to Michael. “I’m glad you’uns is home. There’s things going on here that …” Her voice faded away as Sylvia Thorne approached us.

“LaVonna, I think the judge needs a drink.” Thus was the hired hand dismissed.

“Victoria, my dear, I just learned from Alice-Ann that you are an expert on ghosts and haunted houses.”

I cringed at the “Victoria, my dear” and started to protest, but I was silenced by an imperious wave of her hand.

“You must come back tomorrow evening, my dear. We are going to hold a small seance—just a few people, including, of course, your friends the Mac-Kinstries. It should be interesting, and I would love to have a real ghost expert here. Perhaps you would share some of your experiences with us. Make it about seven.”

She sailed regally into the crowd, leaving me with my mouth open.

Michael frowned.
⁴
Til bet that damn Praxythea is back in town,” he muttered angrily.

“Who’s Praxythea? What a tongue twister of a name!”

“Praxythea Evangelista, if you really want to twist your tongue. Can you believe that name? She claims to be a medium or a psychic, or something. I’m not sure what the hell she calls herself, but I think a good, old-fashioned word for her would be charlatan. She’s shown up in town a couple of times offering to help the police solve crimes. I think she actually did luck out a few years ago and tell them where to find the body of a missing girl; then she spent months appearing on TV talk shows bragging about it. I wouldn’t give her the time of day, but my aunt thinks

she’s fabulous and is always begging her to come and visit. I wonder what she’s up to this time?”

“Should I come to the seance?” I asked him.

“I wish you would. I’m sure she’ll expect me to attend, so it would be nice to have an ally here.”

A bear in a plaid macho-man shirt, his face hidden behind a bushlike red beard, threw his arms around Michael. They pounded each other on the back for a couple of minutes, then began to reminisce about their shared childhood experiences, mostly having to do with fish, so I excused myself and moved away, pretending to have an interest in antique furniture.

There actually was a piece that interested me, an old-fashioned record player in an oak cabinet. I was leaning over it to examine it more closely when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I stared up at Sylvia Thorne.

“I hope I’m not disturbing anything. I’m fascinated by your Victrola. It must be one of the very earliest ones.”

She smiled smugly. “It’s not a Victrola, my dear. It’s an Edison. Much rarer and more valuable. Here, I’ll wind it up so you can hear it.”

She cranked it up, and some tinny music came through the horn. She adjusted a knob and it played a little louder but sounded just as tinny.

“Isn’t that wonderful? It’s absolutely remarkable that Edison had the brilliance to create a machine which could record sounds and reproduce them. Did you know he never had any formal schooling?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t know much about him at all, other than that he was a great inventor.”

“A fabulous inventor—the greatest genius our country has ever produced.”

The music scratched to an end, and she flipped the machine off. Richard appeared at her side and casually draped an arm around her shoulders. It tickled me to see that he practically had to stand on his toes to do it. He had a drink in one hand—obviously not his first.

“What are you two girls up to?” he asked with a smirk.

Girls/ I thought I’d retch, but Sylvia giggled like one.

“I was just telling Victoria something about Thomas Edison. It always amazes me how little young people know about our country’s greatest figures.”

“Damn shame,” he said, directing a wink to me. He changed the subject abruptly. “Are you girls game for another motorcycle riding lesson this Sunday?”

Sylvia shuddered. “The last time, Rose and I both fell off twice, and LaVonna’s left leg is still bruised from when she ran into the apple tree. At our age, it’s a wonder we don’t all have broken bones.”

“Now, now, young lady, you’re only as old as you feel. We’ll concentrate on stopping lessons next time.” He gave her broad shoulders another squeeze and turned his attention to me.

“Victoria, I’m being a terrible host. Let me introduce you to some of our friends.”

With a domineering hand in the middle of my back, he steered me across the room, laughing as we walked. “Can you imagine that bunch of old bats trying to learn how to ride cycles? I just suggested it as a joke—never thought they’d take me up on it. I can just picture them in a few months—black leather jackets, helmets, ‘Born to Be Wild’ tattoos. God, what a riot!”