Read Online Trick or Treachery by Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
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“Con games,” Seth said, guffawing.
“She calls them seances,” Marilou interjected. “You know Brenda lost her husband a year ago.”
“Ayuh,” said Seth. “He was my patient. Fell off a ladder while putting on a new roof. Damn fool was too old to be roofing.”
“Brenda believes in reincarnation and the ability to speak to the dead. I told her that giving money to Tremaine was a waste, but when someone is grieving the way she is, you grasp at straws. She swears Tremaine puts her in touch with Russell, that they have long conversations.”
“The man is a charlatan,” Doug said.
“Unconscionable,” added Pete.
“There’s got to be a law against what he’s doing,” Seth said.
“If there were,” I put in, “Mort Metzger would have invoked it long ago.”
“Look at that.”
We directed our eyes to the right, where Tina Treyz was pointing. Two party-goers in moose costumes could be seen walking through the small, ancient cemetery adjacent to Marshall’s property, where The Legend and her unfaithful spouse were buried. The moose couple’s antlered heads were silhouettes in the light of the full moon. Beyond the cemetery, I knew, were two cottages, the Rose Cottage, where Matilda Swift lived, and on the other side of a grove of spruce trees, the one inhabited by Robert and Lauren Wandowski and their daughter.
“Sneaking off for a little moose smooching, I suspect,” Seth said, smiling.
I turned to my right, where a lonely figure in a moose costume stood on a second patio, gazing out over the cemetery, where the couple was walking. Although he or she was a considerable distance from me, I could see from the stiff stance and fisted gloves that this person was not happy. Seconds later, another moose joined the first. The two exchanged a few words before stepping from view.
“That music is too good to waste,” Roberta Walters said, swinging her tail feathers around and taking her husband’s wing. “You promised me two dances this evening. You owe me one.”
We followed the Walters inside and wandered through the elaborate decorations in Paul Marshall’s mansion. In the dining room, where the walls and chandelier were draped with cotton cobwebs, a buffet rivaling the best on any cruise ship was set up along one wall. Cold shrimp and oysters cascading over tiered ice sculptures were displayed next to pots of hot chowder, pastas, carving stations of turkey, roast beef and lamb, and more salads and side dishes than I’d have time, or stomach, to sample.
Across from the buffet was a table right out of Dickens’s Great Expectations. It had been set to re-create Miss Havisham’s long-abandoned banquet—platters of moldy food, dusty champagne glasses tipped over and skeins of cobwebs on the candelabra that tilted in its center. Guests had gathered to admire the culinary displays both real and counterfeit, but before we were invited to partake of the overflowing buffet tables, our host asked that we gather around him at the foot of a winding staircase leading up to the second floor.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my dear friends, I am so happy to see all of you here enjoying yourselves, and I know you’ll continue the festivities at the buffet tables. But it would be derelict of me not to mention that this night marks the one-year anniversary of the untimely, tragic death of a man who was not only my trusted partner, but also my friend. I speak, of course, of Anthony Scott, who died in that terrible fire one year ago today. Would you join me in a moment of silent tribute to his memory?”
Marshall lowered his head, and a hush fell over the room. Then he looked out over the throng of revelers, raised a glass of champagne he’d been holding and said, “To Tony Scott, partner, genius and sorely missed friend.”
Those holding drinks answered by raising their glasses.
“Tony was a shy man, but he loved a good party, so I know he’d want you to enjoy this one. Now, get to those buffet
“Con games,” Seth said, guffawing.
“She calls them seances,” Marilou interjected. “You know Brenda lost her husband a year ago.”
“Ayuh,” said Seth. “He was my patient. Fell off a ladder while putting on a new roof. Damn fool was too old to be roofing.”
“Brenda believes in reincarnation and the ability to speak to the dead. I told her that giving money to Tremaine was a waste, but when someone is grieving the way she is, you grasp at straws. She swears Tremaine puts her in touch with Russell, that they have long conversations.”
“The man is a charlatan,” Doug said.
“Unconscionable,” added Pete.
“There’s got to be a law against what he’s doing,” Seth said.
“If there were,” I put in, “Mort Metzger would have invoked it long ago.”
“Look at that.”
We directed our eyes to the right, where Tina Treyz was pointing. Two party-goers in moose costumes could be seen walking through the small, ancient cemetery adjacent to Marshall’s property, where The Legend and her unfaithful spouse were buried. The moose couple’s antlered heads were silhouettes in the light of the full moon. Beyond the cemetery, I knew, were two cottages, the Rose Cottage, where Matilda Swift lived, and on the other side of a grove of spruce trees, the one inhabited by Robert and Lauren Wandowski and their daughter.
“Sneaking off for a little moose smooching, I suspect,” Seth said, smiling.
I turned to my right, where a lonely figure in a moose costume stood on a second patio, gazing out over the cemetery, where the couple was walking. Although he or she was a considerable distance from me, I could see from the stiff stance and fisted gloves that this person was not happy. Seconds later, another moose joined the first. The two exchanged a few words before stepping from view.
“That music is too good to waste,” Roberta Walters said, swinging her tail feathers around and taking her husband’s wing. “You promised me two dances this evening. You owe me one.”
We followed the Walters inside and wandered through the elaborate decorations in Paul Marshall’s mansion. In the dining room, where the walls and chandelier were draped with cotton cobwebs, a buffet rivaling the best on any cruise ship was set up along one wall. Cold shrimp and oysters cascading over tiered ice sculptures were displayed next to pots of hot chowder, pastas, carving stations of turkey, roast beef and lamb, and more salads and side dishes than I’d have time, or stomach, to sample.
Across from the buffet was a table right out of Dickens’s Great Expectations. It had been set to re-create Miss Havisham’s long-abandoned banquet—platters of moldy food, dusty champagne glasses tipped over and skeins of cobwebs on the candelabra that tilted in its center. Guests had gathered to admire the culinary displays both real and counterfeit, but before we were invited to partake of the overflowing buffet tables, our host asked that we gather around him at the foot of a winding staircase leading up to the second floor.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my dear friends, I am so happy to see all of you here enjoying yourselves, and I know you’ll continue the festivities at the buffet tables. But it would be derelict of me not to mention that this night marks the one-year anniversary of the untimely, tragic death of a man who was not only my trusted partner, but also my friend. I speak, of course, of Anthony Scott, who died in that terrible fire one year ago today. Would you join me in a moment of silent tribute to his memory?”
Marshall lowered his head, and a hush fell over the room. Then he looked out over the throng of revelers, raised a glass of champagne he’d been holding and said, “To Tony Scott, partner, genius and sorely missed friend.”
Those holding drinks answered by raising their glasses.
“Tony was a shy man, but he loved a good party, so I know he’d want you to enjoy this one. Now, get to those buffet
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