Copy of Not Your Grandmother’s Murders Part III

Gregory Adams Fiction

6 min read

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Just now

“It had been several months since Patrick had spoken to Karen but dinner was an easy sell.

He knew that she had missed him just by the sound of her voice in the phone, and he was a little surprised to discover he had missed her as well. He apologized for his behavior and assured her that he had gone out of the story-borrowing business forever.

He had certainly learned his lesson --too much honesty could be bad for a relationship.

The night of the dinner arrived. Patrick met Karen at her apartment, and she looked stunning. They exchanged polite greetings, got into the car, and had to pull over after a few minutes to hold a spontaneous, enthusiastic and physical reunion.

They were back on the road after a short time. The Mortal Coil was meeting at a private residence about an hour’s drive, so Karen had time to neaten her dress and reapply her lipstick. They chatted back and forth, warmly recalling their good times together. Their spirits remained high until they actually saw the house.

More mansion than house, Bill Doctrow’s place was a looming shape on a hill, thrusting its heavy square shadow into the pale night sky. The windows were blazing with light, in violent contrast to the dark trees that circled the property. Patrick killed the radio and crept the car up the gravel driveway. He had expected to find Cadillacs and Mercedes lining the driveway but there were no cars here at all. “This is the place?” Karen asked, even though she was holding the phone with the GPS in her lap.

Patrick didn’t answer. No valet emerged from the shadows and asked for his keys.

There was no bell so Patrick rapped lightly on the door, Karen standing beside him. He was aware of her shifting her weight from one heeled shoe to the other with apprehension. After a moment a young man wearing cook’s whites opened the door. The front of his apron was smeared with various stains and his eyes seemed to lack focus. He didn’t greet Patrick or Karen, only turned and headed back into the house without a word.

Mr. Lockerbie emerged from a lighted doorway and exclaimed, “The guest of honor, the man of the hour has arrived!” The old man crossed the foyer with his hand thrusts out in enthusiastic greeting. Patrick returned the greeting with equal fervor. “Mr. Lockerbie,” he began as he stepped aside to allow Karen to cross the threshold. “Wonderful to see you. Allow me to present my companion for the evening, Ms. Karen Stepmeyer.”

Karen smiled as Mr. Lockerbie took her hand and kissed it. “The honor is mine, Miss Stepmeyer,” he said. Mr. Lockerbie helped Karen out of her light wrap. She was wearing a black dress that left her shoulders exposed and Patrick caught the flash of excitement in Lockerbie’s eyes at the sight of Karen’s luminous skin.

“Well, allow me to introduce you to the others before they accuse me of trying to keep you two all to myself.” Mr. Lockerbie said as he put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder and guided his guests into a long dining room.

In keeping with the house, the dining room was majestic in scope. There was a great table, large enough for a score of guests, set out with candles and centerpieces and graceful, high backed chairs. Each place had full banquet silver laid out, and the china plates and crystal goblets sparked in the light of the great chandelier, but the opulence was not what first caught Patrick’s eye. Rather, it was the guests that commanded his attention.

There were perhaps a dozen people seated around the grand table and they were all old. Karen and Patrick gaped at the guests, the shrunken men, with their great hanging earlobes and swollen noses, and the antique women who started back at them bleary-eyed from beneath impossible wigs.

George Lockerbie gestured towards Karen and Patrick as if the couple were a marble statue that he had just unveiled. “Assembled board members of the Mortal Coil, may I present to you our guests of honor…”

Mr. Lockerbie went on with the introduction but Patrick’s concentration was too engrossed by the members of the Mortal Coil to hear. One woman had obviously suffered a stroke, and the left side of her body hung completely slack. A clear tube ran above her upper lip, with short hoses jutting up onto her nose. Another tube hung from the corner of her mouth. Patrick was reminded of the tube a dentist uses to collect spit, and indeed, he saw there was an unknown liquid bubbling in the tube. He heard Karen moan with irrepressible revulsion.

Lockerbie continued the introductions, and each guest responded to their names in turn, looking Karen and Patrick up and down with weak, unfocused eyes and greeting them with lifeless gestures. George seated Patrick and Karen beside each other, and then took his own seat at the head of the table. He put a napkin over his lap with great enthusiasm.

“We are all writers, here.” Mr. Lockerbie began. “With the exception of Miss Stepmeyer, of course, but that’s all right, you’ll find we’re quite accepting here.” Karen smiled demurely but Patrick could see anxiety lurking behind her polite expression.

“You have a lovely home.” Karen said to Mr. Doctrow. “You must have had a very successful career to afford such a large estate.” Patrick shot her a cautionary look; he didn’t think these people would appreciate being discussed in the past tense.

Some life came into Mr. Doctrow. “Writing, you mean?” he gave an amused chuckle. “I never paid for a damn thing by writing. My father invented air conditioning.” Quiet laughter traveled around the table; even the woman with the tube in her mouth gave a pleased gurgle.

The man who had answered the door entered then. Still dressed in his stained cooks whites, he appeared even less hospitable than he had at the threshold. He silently poured their wine, his thick lips folded into a frown above his huge chin. “A toast,” Mr. Lockerbie said as soon as Patrick’s glass was full, not even waiting for the others to be served. “To the newest friend of Mortal Coil.” He raised his glass and drank. Patrick did the same.

Patrick drained his glass; he wanted to take the edge off. He realized that all of the guests were watching him with heightened attention— all except for Karen, who was polishing off her own glass of wine. The cook at once refilled their glasses.

Another of the guests, Mr. Kellogg, spoke to Karen. “Are you a fan of the murder mystery my dear?” he asked.

Karen smiled politely. “Not really.” She replied. “That is, I haven’t read very many of them.”

“That’s a pity.” Mr. Kellogg replied. “Here you are in the company of some of the greatest mystery writers of the last century.” He smiled broadly, his dentures as blank and white as fence posts. “Many of the stories we have written, although a bit old fashioned now, were quite well received in their day. There was a need for them. Our little stories showed how death is always with us. Something you come to understand all too well when you reach our age.”

Continued Next Tuesday!

Part Three Posts Tuesday, March 3rd

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