Castle Deadly, Castle Deep, page 6
The two men rolled Ben over, and Paul began his ministrations.
Sick to my stomach, I could look only at Ben’s face, which was devoid of all expression as it stared up at the ceiling of the catacombs, where a wisp of Derek’s carefully placed cobweb drifted slowly down, like a descending spirit.
Minutes later the EMTs came charging down the stairs and took over for Paul. I stood up then, still staring at Ben, and my body began to tremble.
Dash came to stand beside me and his arm tightened around me. “Are you all right?”
“I—don’t know,” I whispered. “Dash, was he stabbed?” I asked so that only he could hear, and he nodded grimly.
“Then I was there. I was right there when it happened, but I didn’t see— I have no idea what happened, but I felt someone push forward, charge forward, and then everyone was gone except for Ben and me, because we both fell. . . .”
I turned to look at the people who faced us from fifteen feet away, a whole group of them, pale faced and wide-eyed, as they watched the EMTs load Ben onto a stretcher and rush toward the stairs. Moments after they disappeared, some uniformed police officers appeared at the hallway entrance, accompanied by a very attractive Black woman in an impeccable brown pantsuit with a crisp white blouse and a lanyard that looked like the one Dash wore when he was on duty.
Dash saw her and let go of me to walk to her side. The two conferred in low tones, their faces close together.
Then Dash turned toward the people who waited in silence. “For those of you who don’t know, I’m Detective John Dashiell of the Wood Glen Police. This is Detective Bradley, and these are Officers Gentry and Bettis. A crime has been committed here, and it was committed by someone in this room. We will be searching all of you for a weapon or for any other evidence that might link you to the crime. Paul, is there a place . . .”
Paul knew what he meant. “Yes. If everyone will keep moving down that hall, you’ll see the winery to your left. There’s a big room there where people can sit down and wait to be interviewed.”
At least a couple of people looked hopeful that this might still be part of the show.
Dash saw this and said, “The dead body down here was supposed to be Miranda there.”
Miranda waved; she had long since gotten off the floor and joined the crowd.
“That was the scripted story,” Dash said. “This body was not planned, and we can only hope that he is not dead.”
And then, as if of one accord, we walked in silence through the catacombs, our feet echoing hollowly on the stones, our bodies trembling in the chill and drafty hall. A skull screamed at me from the wall, its bony jaws wide, and I closed my eyes to the very real horror that had happened in the catacombs, far worse than I could ever have imagined.
6
Castle Legends
DEREK HAD FLIPPED on bright and glaring lights, dispelling all illusion about catacombs or simulated horror to reveal a truly terrifying scene.
We stood huddled in the airy open floor of the wine cellar, where high wooden tables were scattered about the space, under which nestled wooden stools. Some people, including Renata and Elspeth, had seized a stool and sat upon it, probably because they had a sense of just how long we would be here.
Dash had conferred with the police officers and the lovely Detective Bradley (had he had to put his face so close to hers? Had it my imagination that they seemed very comfortable together?), and then he spoke to the group.
“When your name is called, please go with the police officer who calls it and answer the questions that are asked. You may need to show your identification, and some questions may be deemed personal, but the answers will be a necessary component of our investigation.”
“I should think you could let us all go home and interview us there,” Millie said, aggrieved. “Derek knows who we all are and where we live.
Dash considered her with a grim expression. “I assume that Ben is a good friend of just about everyone in this room. He did not fall down in that hallway there.” He pointed back to the catacombs. “He was stabbed.”
A gasp came from someone in the crowd and a great deal of murmuring from the various clusters of people.
“Not only that,” Dash said, “but he was stabbed by someone in this room. Obviously, we can’t let you go until we have collected all the evidence we might require from you. I’m sure you all understand.”
I barely heard what Dash said after that. I was looking at the people in the room—those from the little drama group with whom I had become familiar; my own Castle Troupe, who could not possibly have had anything to do with an attack on a kid like Ben; and some of the other drama club members I had not yet met. It has to be one of them, I thought.
I noted that other people were looking around, too—we all wore the same expression of disbelief.
I had stayed by myself in one corner, unwilling to speak to anyone, still in the midst of shock and horror. I watched the others as they attempted to comfort one another. Jack pulled a tearful Priscilla into his arms and kissed her hair; his own blue eyes were filled with tears. Andrew and Millie stood close together, their eyes wide and disbelieving. Andrew seemed to have crumpled in on himself, and I recalled his easy, fatherly affection with Ben. I did not think the Portnoys had children of their own. Barbara stood with some woman I did not recognize, but whom someone had called Stephanie. Both women looked resentfully at the police as though they had arranged the crime.
Dash appeared in front of me and pulled me into a brief hug. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“It’s just—this happened to me not long ago, in the chapel, and I’m having flashbacks—”
“God, I’m sorry.” He looked rueful but also urgent. “Listen, Nora, this is a time-sensitive situation, so I need to get back to my interview. Officer Bettis will talk to you in a minute, but I wanted to ask you: what exactly did you see when Ben fell?
I closed my eyes, trying to recall that moment, the rushing crowd, the darkness and chaos, and losing my balance. . . . “I was behind the Blue Curtain group or some of them, I think. It was hard to see even before the lights went off. I think I was behind Jack for a while, and then later I was behind Ben, obviously, because when the lights went out, people rushed forward, and I tripped, and so did Ben, I thought, because we both went down, but then the lights went back on and he didn’t answer me or make a sound, and then I saw his face. . . .”
Dash touched my hand. “Who rushed forward?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was a whole group, but I had also thought no one was behind me, except maybe Millie, because she had been taking pictures and had lagged behind a little, but I’m not sure. I didn’t actually look back. I should have.” I studied Dash as a new horror occurred to me. “Whoever rushed forward—they stabbed him, didn’t they? They stabbed him right next to me, and I fell because I tripped, but he fell because he was horribly wounded.”
Dash nodded. “Don’t dwell on that. But if there’s anything you can remember, anything that seemed out of place . . .”
I thought. There had been something, a little tiny something that had struck me at the time, but I couldn’t bring it back now, chaotic as my thoughts were.
Dash nodded. “Okay, that’s fine. I need to—” His phone rang; he swiped it on and said, “Dashiell.” He listened for a moment, his face grim, and then said, “Right. Okay, yeah. Thanks.” He swiped off again.
“Ben’s dead,” he said in a low voice.
“Oh, no!” I cried without thinking of being discreet.
Now many eyes were on us, and Priscilla cried, “Is it Ben? Is he okay?”
With a sigh, Dash moved toward the center of the room. “Your friend and colleague Ben Boyle was pronounced dead when he reached the hospital.”
A collective cry rose from the crowd, something between a scream and a moan. I studied the miserable expressions of Ben’s friends and fellow actors and could not see one face that looked inauthentic. And yet one of them was responsible for Ben’s death. It had been no accident. We had all been frisked when we walked through the doorway of the wine cellar, so where had the murder weapon gone?
Murder. This was a murder investigation now. Detective Bradley joined Dash and put her hands on her hips. She spoke in a low and lovely voice that made me unaccountably angry.
“This is now a murder investigation. You are all expected to cooperate fully and to answer every question posed to you. It may take time, but we have a very specific protocol we need to follow. Derek has reminded us that there is a washroom to your left, behind the final shelf of wine. No one is to go toward the hallway we were in earlier; the CSI team is there now, and absolutely no one may go back to the scene of the crime.”
She stationed herself at one of the wood tables and began calling people to her. Dash did the same at a different table, and so did one of the police officers.
The other, Officer Bettis, came to me and put a gentle hand on my arm. “Are you doing okay?” she asked. “It’s hard, I know.”
“He was just a nice kid,” I said in a toneless voice. “He worked in a bakery.”
Suddenly Barb cried out, “He had animals! Can someone text Jade and tell her to look in on Ben’s dogs?”
“I’ll do it,” I said.
I texted Jade several times a week because we were friends. I wrote her a quick note now:
Jade, I need you to look in on Ben Boyle’s animals if possible. Ben will not be coming home tonight and someone needs to look after his pets. Can you do it?
I sent the text and began to answer Officer Bettis’s questions. Then my phone buzzed.
I’ll do it. Is he okay?
I hesitated. Jade was only a teenager, but she was very matter-of-fact. She would not want me to lie.
No, I wrote.
A pause. Is he dead?
I’m sorry. Yes. The police are investigating.
There was a longer pause. Thanks for thinking of the animals. I’ll tell my mom and dad.
I called out to the group, “Jade will care for the animals.”
“Thank you,” Barbara said in a low voice.
I turned back to Bettis.
As she asked me questions, my mind was racing with questions of its own: who would have wanted to attack Ben? Why had the attack happened in the catacombs? And how could the attacker have known that the lights would go out at that particular moment? Did that mean that it was someone from our Castle Troupe?
It was two in the morning by the time the police let people go. Dash spoke sternly to the now grumbling group. “I will let you return to your homes, but none of you is allowed to leave Wood Glen. If you try to leave town, I will arrest you on suspicion of murder.”
Sounds of outrage. Dash stared everyone down. “There is a murderer in this room,” he said. “I don’t know yet who it is, but I will know. Until I find out the truth, you will support your local police and your late friend, and you will remain in town. And now Derek will escort you out one by one via a very narrow fire exit.”
I too had to leave via the fire exit and make my way back to the castle entrance in the cold darkness. Connie found me and held my hand, but we walked in silence. When we got into the castle, we stood irresolutely in the main hall.
“I’m so tired,” I said. “But I’m so hungry. We never got to eat our dinner. I assume someone told Zana not to bring it down after all her work.”
“Yeah, and I think Derek hired Eriza and her friend to help waitress. They were so excited.”
I sighed. “Do you have any interest in a postmidnight snack?”
“I do,” Connie said. “It looks like the light is on in the kitchen, so obviously someone else had this idea.”
Connie and I made our way to the kitchen, only to find several people sitting around the wood table: Elspeth, Renata, Paul, and Dorian.
“Welcome,” said Paul. “We’re commiserating with some sustenance. Zana is feeding us because she insists that food is comfort.”
“It’s true,” said Zana, walking in with a pan of appetizers that had obviously been meant for the dinner portion of the show. “And don’t feel guilty about eating. You all need your strength, and I don’t want all my work to go to waste.”
“Did Eriza and her friend go home?” I asked.
“No, they’re sleeping in my bed.” She gestured with her head toward the little room that Derek had made hers for any nights that she worked late in the castle and didn’t want to drive home.
“Where will you sleep?” Connie asked.
Zana shrugged. “On the floor.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Connie sat up straight. “I want to keep an eye on Derek tonight, so I’ll be in his room. You can stay in mine. I’ll put clean sheets out for you.”
Zana was too tired to argue. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m pretty wiped out today.”
“We appreciate all your hard work, Zana,” Paul said. “I’m sorry—”
We sat in silence. It was understood that Paul was sorry not just that Zana’s effort had been wasted, but that a much more terrible thing had been wasted pointlessly and violently.
“No one in that room could have done it,” Elspeth said. Her expression was still stunned. “Someone must have gotten in. Some crazy person. I mean, who would have had a motive? Ben is like a teddy bear.”
Everyone seemed to notice her use of the present tense, and this cast another pall over the table.
Eventually Renata said, “Zana, this is delicious. The pastry is so light, and the chicken is so tender.”
Zana thanked her. “I’ve got some nice desserts back there, too.”
Elspeth said, “Has anyone ever seen that Detective Bradley before?” She looked at me. “Nora, doesn’t Dash usually work alone?”
Zana brightened. “Is Robin down there?”
We all turned to her, and she said, “She’s my cousin. She works in the Morristown Station, but she had said something about them sending her over to help with a burglary investigation. Those are her specialty.”
“Huh. And yet now she’s on a murder,” Paul said.
“Good looks run in your family,” said Dorian, who had been wolfing down food in a shameless manner until this moment. “I can see the resemblance.”
This seemed utterly inappropriate, but I looked at Zana and saw that she was smiling. “Thanks, Dor.”
Dor? It was true, then. They had really struck up a friendship in the weeks since Dorian had arrived.
Renata sighed and pushed away her plate. “Will this be bad for the castle, Paul?”
“It won’t be great. And Derek was already worried about finances. . . .”
Connie stood up. “Speaking of Derek, I need to see how he’s doing. Zana, I’ll get your room ready first. Do you know which one is mine? Nora can show you in any case.”
I nodded, and Zana smiled at me. “Thanks again, Connie.”
Connie stood up and took her plate to the sink; then she gave Zana a half hug and waved at the rest of us before she left the room.
Paul looked sober. “Two murders within a couple of months.”
Dorian looked thoughtful. “Why would someone do it? I read an interview with P. D. James once—”
“You know P. D. James?” I asked, surprised.
Dorian raised a brow at me. “Yes, I do read, Nora, as I told you. I am a literate person.”
“I just didn’t think you read classic female crime writers.”
“I read all sorts of things. Anyway, in this interview she said that the motives for murder were love, lust, and lucre. And it all comes down to lucre in the end, right? Follow the money, and you’ll find the truth.” He thought about this, then looked at Paul. “Could this have something to do with that castle legend? The one about the treasure?”
“What?” Zana asked, intrigued.
I recalled sitting with Zana in the library of the castle, searching through books for the “treasure” of photographs, dollar bills, or any other items that people had used as bookmarks and then forgotten. Zana had the heart of an adventurer.
“What legend?” she asked.
Paul rubbed his eyes, looking weary. “Oh, it’s nothing. When Derek and I were first renovating the castle, we found this old box with some documents written by our distant uncle Philip. Various legal forms but also some of his creative ramblings. He had a remarkably innovative mind.” Paul thought about this for a moment. “Anyway, there was this little poem about the castle and treasure. It seemed to suggest that one just had to follow the clues.”
“Fantastic,” Dorian said, his eyes shining.
Paul looked thoughtful. “Derek and I looked into it for a while, but we ultimately concluded that he had written it as part of the castle’s debut. It was open to the public at first; he wanted to share his vision with the world, after seven years of construction. Derek figures that the poem was a metaphor for the creative spirit and that it encouraged people to look for it within themselves. We thought he might have included it in some sort of grand-opening program.”
“Or maybe it was real. Maybe Ben knew something about it, and—”
“Probably best not to speculate,” said Renata wisely. “The police know what they’re doing. I’m sure they’ll want us all to stay out of it. In any case, I must go to bed. Zana, can I help you wrap these things up?”
“We’ll all help,” Paul said, standing.
We followed him to the counter, where we made quick work of wrapping food in plastic wrap and stowing it in the large refrigerator.
“Thanks, everyone,” Zana said. “Nora, I’m ready whenever you are.” She was practically asleep on her feet.
And so it was Zana, not Connie, who linked arms with me and ascended the dark staircase at my side.
“Do you and your cousin Robin see each other often?” I asked.
