Diana Killian - Murder On The Eightfold Path

Jake said woodenly, “I’ll walk you out.”

“Nice to meet you, A.J.,” Chess said cordially.

A.J. paid her check and walked out of the dining room with Jake a silent presence behind her.

She knew it was unreasonable to be angry. She reminded herself that they didn’t-did not-have an exclusive arrangement.

As they reached the lobby front door, she said, “Chess seems pleasant. How long have you known her?”

Never one to waste time on polite chitchat, Jake said, “I’ve been meaning to call.”

A.J. couldn’t read anything in his expression. “Well, things are weird right now. I realize that better than anyone.”

“They are, yeah.” He raked an impatient hand through his hair. “Look, we need to talk. Are you going to be home tomorrow night?”

She hadn’t made her mind up about going with Elysia until that very instant, but A.J. suddenly realized how much she did not have the emotional energy for whatever this talk was about. “Actually, I’m going out of town.”

His face tightened. “Come on, A.J.”

“I’m not playing games,” she said. “I’m going out of town with Mother.”

“How far out of town?”

“Sussex County. Andover, to be precise. Don’t worry. She’s not trying to make a break for it. She’s going to stay with a friend for the weekend, that’s all.” She added, “If you want to talk, we can always use the phone.”

She didn’t like the expression that crossed his face. “This might be a little complicated for a phone call.”

“Then I guess I’ll see you when I get back.”

Jake nodded, looked away. Staring into the distance he said tersely, “I’m not enjoying this, you know.”

“I can see it. That makes two of us.”

A grinning skeleton leaned against the etched glass front of the long-case grandfather clock in the long reception hall of Medea Sutherland’s restored Victorian mansion. The black-flocked velvet walls were lined with horror movie posters with titles like The Devouring, The Girl in the Grave, She-Wolf.

“That’s Wee Geordie,” Medea said cheerfully, following A.J.’s gaze.

“Please tell me you found him on a movie set somewhere.”

Medea-Maddie Sutherland-laughed her unexpectedly raucous laugh. She was tall and mournful looking with gaunt features and black eyes beneath Joan Crawford eyebrows. In her black trousers and black turtleneck, she could have played the dour housekeeper in any number of low-budget scary movies, but in her heyday she had been cast exclusively as demon-possessed vixens or terror-stricken ingénues.

“A.J.’s afraid you dug him up in the garden,” Elysia remarked, and Medea laughed that deep laugh again.

“I’ve found interesting things in the garrrden, but no skeletons so far. Not human ones, anyway!” While most of Medea’s native Scottish accent had been trained out of her, she retained a small but definite Scottish burr, that charming way of rolling the Rs. “Let me take you up to your rooms and then I’ll give you a wee tourrr of the house.”

One thing for sure, Medea seemed in good spirits. If she was aware of Dicky Massri’s death, it clearly wasn’t ruining her day. She led them briskly down the long reception hall adorned with artfully placed fake cobwebs, gilt-framed mirrors with cracked glass, and a huge chandelier with flicker bulbs.

A.J. exchanged a glance with her mother. Elysia seemed to be taking it all in stride. The house was immaculate, so it wasn’t a housekeeping issue, just some very funky ideas about home décor. Medea had to be the oldest goth A.J. had met.

They reached the staircase to the second level and A.J. examined the gallery of old photographs and tintypes. “Are these your family?” she inquired.

“No, no,” Medea replied. “I just like the look of their faces.”

A.J. had no particular response to that, but if she had, it would have been lost as a small, furry creature came sliding down the banister. For a moment she thought it was a rat, although it looked more like a weasel. She let go of the banister and just missed stepping into Elysia, who had stopped on the stairs.

“What on earth?” Elysia stared as the black-and-white creature streaked past. “Was that a skunk?”

Medea chuckled at the very idea of such craziness. “It’s a ferrrret.”

“A ferret?”

“That’s right, hen. Her name is Morrrag.”

Morag the ferrrret had safely reached the lower level and scampered away into the gloom. A.J. and Elysia followed Medea as she continued the trek upstairs. They reached the top landing where the statue of a mournful marble lady weeping into a hanky seemed to be commiserating with A.J. over her weekend plans.

Medea led the way down the hallway to their separate bedrooms.

“You share the bath. It adjoins both bedrooms.” Medea opened the white door leading into the large bathroom, but A.J.’s attention was riveted to the graveyard scene painted across the far wall. No, not painted. The wall was covered in a full-sized decorative vinyl photograph of a mournful graveyard.

“Uh…” she began, but she was talking to herself. The other two women had moved down the hallway to the next bedroom. She dropped her carryall with relief. She had insisted on carrying it upstairs, but it hadn’t done her back any good.

The rest of the room was relatively ordinary: forest green walls and white trim, a large canopy bed with bone white draperies, green and white globe lamps, and a large mirror with a dragon frame and candleholder.

A.J. followed her mother and Medea; she was almost looking forward to seeing the next stage set-because that’s what these macabre rooms seemed like: elaborate, tongue-in-cheek movie sets.

Elysia’s room was minus a mural but the gloomy paintings on the gray walls more than made up for it. The bed in her room was lacking a canopy, but it was an enormous, black, iron affair that suggested a torture device or a birdcage-although the fluffy duvet was a cozy touch. There were a couple of gargoyle wall sconces and a table by the bay windows that seemed to be of a gargoyle in the pose of The Thinker. A.J. couldn’t help feeling that anything a gargoyle put that much mental energy into would not be good.

Medea was still talking cheerfully about the repairs and renovations to the mansion, most of which she had done herself.

“Very thrifty, petal,” Elysia remarked, when she could get a word in edgewise. “Er, what’s happened to… what’s his name? Your lord and master. Will we meet him this evening?”

Medea’s sharp features darkened. “I told you about that, surely?”

“No. What?”

“I didn’t tell you? I thought I wrote you?”

“I’m sure I’d have remembered.”

“I divorrrced him, the villain.”

“Oh dear,” Elysia said mildly. “That was sudden. What happened?”

“It wasn’t nearly sudden enough. Ought to have known better at my age.”

“What happened?” Elysia persisted.

Medea straightened the head of a small, grinning gargoyle wall sconce. “He was nothing but a forrrtune hunter.”

As Elysia made the appropriate noises, her gaze found and held A.J.’s. “That’s terrible. What was his name again? Dick… something, wasn’t it? How long did the marriage last?”

But Medea shook her head sharply, the subject seemingly closed. Elysia raised her shoulders in a ghost of a shrug.

Medea, once again in tour guide mode, led them back downstairs pointing out the architectural points of interest in the house as they went. One thing A.J. liked was that nearly every room had bookshelves, mostly filled with works of science fiction, fantasy, and horror.