The Murder Game

CHAPTER 1

Gwen curled her legs under her, just as she had done as a child. The mahogany window seat shone with fresh polish, and the scent of lemon oil lingered, bringing back memories of her mother. A line from her last novel, Fallen through the Crack, kept playing through her mind, something her fictional detective Adam Long had said to his partner. "Fate? There is no such thing as fate. It’s always our own choice. Sometimes we don't like the choices we make; sometimes we don't want to believe they are our choices, but we made them."

What choices had led her to the Van Hise mansion on Mt. Tamalpais? To this room with its polished mahogany, overstuffed chairs, genuine Tiffany lamps, and a curious mixture of Art Nouveau and ancient Chinese art?

Adam Long didn't believe in fate, only in choices, but Gwen wasn’t sure. Was it fate that led Lawrence Van Hise to offer her $10,000 to create a murder game party for his seventieth birthday? Possibly–but it had been her choice to return to Hillside Cottage, where her mother once worked as a housekeeper.

Gwen shivered slightly. The cold of the January night, which would cover everything with a coat of white frost before morning, crept into the window seat and under her peach mohair sweater, making the touch of her satin shirt icy. Maybe she had been wrong to let her curiosity get the better of her.

The mantle clock chimed the half hour. A man entered the living room, and Gwen pulled back into the deep shadow of the window seat. He deposited his briefcase on a chair and headed across the spacious room to the fireplace, where he stood warming himself.

Gwen recognized him instantly. Hunter Van Hise, Lawrence's only son. She had been ten when they moved to the mansion, and he had made her life miserable, as only a thirteen-year-old boy could. When she was thirteen and he sixteen, with his first car, he had been her romantic dream, her first crush.

She sat very still, hoping not to attract his attention, wanting time to study him. The handsome boy had matured into a very handsome man. An actor might envy his dark, almost brooding face. He pulled off his overcoat and tossed it over the sofa and stood rubbing his hands in front of the fire. His dark gray wool suit was perfectly tailored, emphasizing a slender build, and his full dark blonde hair had obviously been styled in an expensive salon.

His pleasure at the fire's warmth was enticing, but Gwen didn't move. Then he turned and saw her. He took a step toward her, stopped, studying her as she had done him.

Her heart fluttered in her breast. Would he recognize her? Would he remember the little girl who cast such moon-eyes at him? What would he think of her? She had no illusions. She wasn't a beauty. No, most people saw her as practical. That didn't mean she wasn't attractive, because she was, but in a down-to-earth way. Still, she knew peach was one of her colors. It complimented her dark brown hair and fair skin, and her oversize sweater, with its matching satin shirt and pants, made her look chic. The big gold earrings and gold bangles on her wrists completed the look

"You must be Gwen Wilson, the woman my father hired for his crazy scheme." His tone cut right through her reverie.

Suddenly Gwen was ten again, in this very room, and Hunter was telling her that this was his house, and if he ever caught her playing in here he would see her mother was fired. Gwen felt her chin tremble–then she caught herself. She wasn't ten anymore, and Hunter couldn't bully her.

"I don't think it's such a crazy idea."

"You wouldn't."

Anger rose inside her. "I think your father has the right to choose. It is, after all, his birthday."

"Of course, and what my father wants, he always gets." Gwen couldn't miss the bitterness in Hunter's voice.

"That's right, boy." Lawrence Van Hise entered the room. Gwen's mental image superimposed itself over the real man. The rough lion of a man that she had at once idolized and feared, who even now in her memory seemed larger than life, was just an ordinary man. An old man with a shock of white hair. Despite the frailness and the white hair, Gwen saw he still possessed, undiminished, the autocratic air of power. Almost 70, Lawrence stood upright; he commanded attention. In fact, he could even be called handsome, despite the deep lines that etched the forehead and bracketed the eyes, nose, and mouth. Not unattractive lines, but lines that spoke of experience.

Gwen rose to meet him, putting out her hand in response to his outstretched one. He introduced himself and Hunter. Before Gwen could tell him that she knew who he was because her mother had been Sylvia Moss, Lawrence turned to Hunter.

"Will you be joining us for dinner?" he asked.

"No. I've just enough time to change before I have to leave. A charity dinner for the San Francisco Ballet."

Lawrence tucked a hand under Gwen's elbow. "If that's the case, son, you’ll excuse us. Mrs. Lee tells me that dinner has been ready for thirty minutes and will be totally ruined if we don't sit down immediately." Without waiting for Hunter's reply, Lawrence guided Gwen out of the living room.

She glanced back; Hunter was scowling.

"I've been thinking, my dear," Lawrence said, as they crossed the entryway. "I once had a housekeeper who stole a priceless jade statue. Perhaps we could work that into the mystery."

Gwen briefly wondered which housekeeper. She couldn't remember hearing about any housekeeper stealing, but perhaps after they left.

He opened the door to the formal dining room.

Gwen eagerly looking around the room. Even less had changed in here than in the living room. The large oak table still dominated the middle of the room. The massive fireplace took up one wall, sideboards the other three. Paintings–old, beautiful oils in gilt frames–accented warm oak paneling.

The table was already laid. A young Spanish girl carried in a tray and placed it on one of the sideboards. "You may serve the soup, Quinta," Lawrence said, seating Gwen before taking his own seat. Quinta placed a bowl in front of Gwen. One perfect slice of mushroom floated on the creamy white soup, accented with a tiny sprig of parsley.

"Thank you," Gwen said, smiling at the girl, who did not smile back. Gwen turned her attention back to Lawrence. "Tell me more about this robbery."

"As robberies go, I suppose it wasn't that exciting. One of the jade statues from the cabinet in my office was missing. We searched and found it hidden in the housekeeper's room. It was her day off, and she probably planned to take the statue into San Francisco to sell. Her name was Sylvia Moss."

Gwen's spoon dropped, clattering as it hit her plate.

"I'm sorry," Gwen mumbled, hiding her face behind a napkin and swallowing hard. No, it couldn't have been her mother. It just couldn't. "What happened?"

"I fired her, of course. I should've pressed charges, but I felt sorry for her. She was the sole support of a young daughter. You can see the figurine if you want; it's in my office."

Was Lawrence watching her with a sense of expectation? Could he know who she was? Who could remember a thirteen-year-old girl nicknamed Taffy? She herself didn't recognize the person she had grown into, and long ago she had stopped using the nickname. Besides she still used her married name, Wilson. No, it was just a coincidence.

Gwen took a sip of wine and smiled. She hoped it looked natural. "Are you sure the woman was responsible?"

"Absolutely. It wasn't the first time things had come up missing–small stuff, mostly money." Quinta took away the soup and left a broiled salmon fillet and green beans with almonds.

Salmon was Gwen's favorite fish, but she didn't think she could eat it. Even so, she picked up the lemon slice, squeezed the juice over the pink flesh, then picked up her fork.

Lawrence attacked his fish with relish, and, after a few minutes, said, "I must confess I've eagerly been waiting to find out how you plan to kill me."

Gwen blinked. "I usually use a fictional victim, who dies off stage."

"Definitely not. I want to set the stage with me lying dead. I'm sure you can devise a marvelous plot to kill me."

"I can use you as the victim, but understand this will be a completely fictional story. I've learned from experience that it's much easier to get into the spirit of the game if you're playing make-believe."

"A fictional story it is, then. Just what character do you have in mind for me?"

"Since I'm from Hollywood, how about a movie mogul? A wealthy producer."

"I like that idea." Lawrence took a sip of wine. "I'm curious. Why did you leave Hollywood?"

Gwen didn't want to talk about herself, but she could think of no reason to refuse to answer his question. "My aunt died. I moved here to settle her estate and to sell her house in Oakland."

"I'm sorry," Lawrence said, with rote politeness. "Are you returning to Hollywood soon?"

"I'm not sure. I'm thinking about staying in the area for a while. My publisher wants another Adam Long novel, and my agent suggested setting it in San Francisco. But, back to the game. I need to know how large a group this will be."

"About ten guests."

"Somehow I thought it would be a much larger party."

"Does it make a difference?"

"No. I prefer smaller groups. Then everyone can have a role to play. I do have one question. Why me?"

"Your reputation. A well-known writer who creates murder games. To be frank, I checked you out, and you were highly recommended for being very creative and innovative."

"By whom?" Gwen's curiosity rising.

"Mrs. Sutton, for one, was very impressed."

Gwen nodded, she had done a game for a charity Mrs. Sutton chaired. "But why offer my agent $10,000 to have me create this game?"

"Because, as my son says, I always get what I want. I wanted you, and I knew you wouldn't turn down $10,000. I was right, wasn't I? But don't worry. I assure you that I will consider it money well spent. There’s one stipulation. I want to know everything about the game. Do you have any problem with that?"

"No, if you're willing to accept that I am the expert."

Lawrence smiled at her. "That much is obvious. I've never plotted to murder anyone before, but I'm looking forward to it. May I make a confession? I'm a big fan of yours. I loved Fallen through the Crack and The Merry-go-round Murders. There’s a part of me that always wanted to be a mystery writer, and this will be the closest I come. I hope you’ll indulge an old man."

"Willingly," she said, suddenly wanting very much to make this old man's dream come true. If not for him, then to show his son. She would create a wonderful game, her best ever. It wasn't a crazy scheme, and she would prove it to Hunter.

"You've hardly eaten," Lawrence said. "I've been keeping you too busy talking."

Gwen stared down at the fish and knew that she couldn't eat. What was now in her stomach churned uncomfortably. "I wasn't very hungry. If you don't mind, I think I'll forgo dessert and begin working on the game. Five days isn't long."

"But you'll finish the game by Saturday?"

"Yes."

"Then I mustn't keep you from your work." Lawrence rose from his chair, and Gwen made her escape upstairs.

Gwen lay in the darkness. It was after midnight. The house was quiet, and yet she couldn’t sleep.

Her mother, a thief. She couldn't believe it. She tried to remember back. It had been July, and she came home from playing with her friends to find her mother packing. Gwen could see her mother had been crying and when she asked her why, her mother told her they had to leave to take care of Aunt Clara. Aunt Clara was never a robust woman, but when they arrived at her aunt's house, she hadn't seemed ill. Her mother never mentioned being fired or accused of theft. But then, there had been little chance for her mother to explain. She was killed in an accident shortly after.

Thinking back to that last day at Hillside Cottage, Gwen remembered the attic and her secret hiding place. She wondered if her treasures remained undisturbed. Why not look? She was wide awake. Climbing out of bed, she shivered and was tempted for a moment to crawl back under the warm covers. Tomorrow would be soon enough. No, she wanted to see tonight. Pulling on her quilted robe, she belted it about her, took the miniature flashlight from her key chain, and slipped out of her room. A light in the foyer cast a glow in the upper hallway. She made her way to the back stairs and climbed to the third floor using her little flashlight. The staff bedrooms were up here, so she moved quietly down the hall. The floor creaked, sounding as loud as a gunshot in the midnight stillness. Gwen held her breath. How could she explain wandering around after midnight? None of the doors opened; all was quiet. Stepping carefully to avoid more squeaking boards, she moved to the end of the hall.

The door at the end of the hall led to the attic. She held her breath and turned the knob. With a soft click, the door swung open. For a moment she thought of turning on the light, but she remembered a crack near the ceiling and knew the light would shine into the maid's room. Using the flashlight, she moved into the attic. Around her, furniture and boxes made dark and shadowy sculptures. Dust and mold made her want to sneeze, but she fought the need. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed in the last 15 years. She followed the same path she had used as a child. At the corner, she counted four boards in; the board swung easily out of the way. Gwen shined the tiny light into the cavity. The book was still there. She reached in and lifted it out tenderly.

The black leather felt grainy beneath her fingers. Dusty, dirty. She wiped it off on her robe. The brass lock was tarnished, the gold lettering almost worn away. She reached into the hole again, picking up a shell from a trip to the beach at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, and her favorite necklace. Even in the poor light, she could see its silver had tarnished almost black. She slipped the shell and necklace into the pocket of her robe. Taking her diary, she hurried down the stairs.

Hunter tossed the car keys into the bowl on the sideboard and his overcoat on the chair next to it. Mrs. Lee could hang the coat up for him in the morning, he thought wearily. He peered into the living room. It was dark. The fire’s dying embers glowed dimly. No doubt Mrs. Lee had seen to it that the fire was properly banked and the screen in place. He thought of checking, then decided it was pointless. He headed for the stairs. Then he heard footsteps, soft and furtive. He mounted the stairs and came face to face with the woman. She jumped; frightened eyes stared at him. She clutched something to her.

"What do you have there?" he asked her.

"I . . . I. . . ." She stammered, looking guilty.

He put out his hand, now curious.

Gwen pulled back. "It's my diary. It's no concern of yours."

Of course. He could see the corner of the small black book peek from behind her hands. An old-fashioned dairy. The thought struck him funny and he gave a little laugh. "Somehow you don't seem like the type to go around writing in a diary."

"And why not? I am a writer." Hunter recognized the challenge in her eyes, and it intrigued him. He wondered what she was doing up so late, with her diary.

"I suppose you went downstairs to get something to eat."

"That's right," she said. She seemed uncomfortable, just the way she clutched the book. Maybe it was being with him that made her feel that way. He didn't think she liked him, but then, whose fault was that?

"I'll wish you good night, Miss Wilson."

"It's Mrs. Wilson."

"Mrs.?" Then he remembered. "Oh, yes, it was on the jacket cover that you were a widow."

"You've read Fallen through the Crack then?"

Hunter thought of lying, but he told her the truth–he hadn't read the book–then felt almost embarrassed for the admission. "Good night, Mrs. Wilson," he said, moving past her.

"Mr. Van Hise."

He paused.

"Is it me you don't approve of, or the money your father is spending?"

"I suppose it's the money, but not the way you think. I'm opposed to spending money on anything doomed to failure."

"I assure you I'm very good at what I do."

"I suppose you are, but that won't prevent this party from being a dismal failure. I'll pay you $5000 if you tell my father no and leave here tomorrow." When Gwen didn't answer, he said softly. "Think about it." Then he walked down the hall. He paused at his door and looked back. The hall light made a soft halo on her dark hair, and her robe had fallen open slightly to reveal pink lace and the delicate swell of a bosom. He wondered for an instant what it would feel like to hold her in his arms, to kiss the vulnerable mouth. "Good night again, Mrs. Wilson," he said, before the thought continued any further.

Gwen entered her own room and shut the door. What was that strange look he had given her, she wondered? Did he know that she had lied? Her image stared back at her from the full length mirror on the bathroom door just opposite. She noticed a long swipe of dust on her robe, where she had wiped the diary. No wonder he had given her such a strange look! A trip to the kitchen wouldn't have produced such a mark, or the dirty edges along the bottom of her robe. Why had she lied? Because he made her feel defensive. It was her memories. When she had seen him standing there, in his black tux, he had reminded her of the night he had gone to the formal dance at the country club. She had spent the night dreaming that she had been his date. Seeing him like that had brought the childhood crush back, full force. She tingled from head to toe, her breath caught in her throat, she felt 13 again, awkward and unsure.

Propping the pillows up against the tall carved headboard, she climbed into bed, pulling the maroon comforter about her knees. She picked up her diary and thumbed through it.

"He looked at me today, I nearly melted into the ground."

A dried brittle rose fell from between the pages. She opened to the page. The rose had left an imprint, discoloring the thin paper. She read, "He took Kathleen to the dance. The next day I found the rose. He wore it on his lapel. I will keep it always because he wore it. Oh how I wished it was me he had taken to the dance."

Gwen smiled, then started to laugh. She unquestionably had it bad, that first crush. But for all her plotting to get him to like her, he always disliked her. Nothing had changed. He still didn't like her, and she still had a crush on him. That thought brought Gwen bolt upright in the bed. Was it true? She felt devastated at his words in the living room; her heart did an unfamiliar pitter-patter on seeing him on the stairs. Unrequited love? This was ridiculous! She was a grown woman. A woman who had already been in love and married once.

One thing she didn't need to complicate her life was another romance. Warned, she would be on her guard. She wouldn't let childhood fantasies influence her. She climbed out of bed and carefully laid the diary in her suitcase.

She paused, then picked up the diary again and thumbed through, looking for the last entry. July 14, she’d been planning to go to the movies with her friends. Then nothing. Blank pages. She worked backwards, but nothing in the pages mentioned any robberies or gave any clue to the theft. Someone, the real thief, must have hidden the figurine in her mother's room. Lawrence had said other things were missing, money mostly. Who else could have been the thief? Who else had been in the house? Lawrence. Hunter had been home on vacation. Then Grant, Lawrence's brother, had been visiting between regattas. Gwen couldn't remember if he had been here on July 14 or away on his boat.

Then there was the staff: a young girl who came daily from Mill Valley, and the cook, Mrs. Campbell, who had been there longer than she and her mother. A pleasant woman. Gwen wondered if she still worked here. Anyone else? The young gardener. She had almost forgotten Travis. Something about him had always given Gwen the creeps, and she avoided him whenever possible. Most likely he was the thief. It all made sense.

It was ridiculous. How could she expect to prove who had stolen a Chinese figurine after all these years, and what did it matter? Her mother was dead.

But it did matter.