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“YOU DIDN’T WASTE any time,” I told Ty as a bricklayer named Felix began to lay a second course of bricks across the door-size opening to Percival Ruskin’s basement tomb. The hole that had been created by Jankovic Number One three days earlier had subsequently been enlarged to allow for examination and removal of Percy’s skeletonized remains.
It was kind of mesmerizing, watching Felix set each brick into a bed of mortar and neatly scrape off the excess before moving on to the next one. The new brickwork was much neater and more uniform than the Colonial-era wall that surrounded it. I preferred the look of the old, irregular bricks, but that’s just me.
I said, “I’m glad you’re doing this, Ty, but don’t be surprised if someone asks why you didn’t install a door there and leave the little room intact.”
Amy, standing next to me, shuddered. “As what, some kind of sick tourist attraction?”
Ty said, “It was bad enough having those ghouls sneak onto the property to mess around with the hot tub after Stu died in it. The last thing I want is someone getting the bright idea to slip down here and hunt for souvenirs.”
“Good point. Is that why you’re leaving the punch bowl and cup in there?”
Amy said, “Every time I see them, I’m reminded of what Sybille did to Percival, of his agonizing death. I never want to see those things again.”
“Better to leave them where they are,” Ty said.
The sound of footfalls on the stairs made us turn. Shelley stopped halfway down and said, “You have visitors, Ty.”
“If they’re from Ramrod News,” he said, “get rid of them. Ditto for The Romano Report.”
A gray eyebrow rose. She said, “Didn’t I run those jackals off last time they came sniffing around?”
The Romano Report, hosted by chef-turned-TV-personality Leonora Romano, competed with Miranda Daniels’s show in the same time slot and was only marginally less offensive.
Shelley descended two more steps and whispered, “It’s Stu Ruskin’s brother and his wife. He said it’s important.”
Amy turned to her father. “What could they want?”
“Only one way to find out.” He glanced one last time at the brickwork in progress, then led the way upstairs.
It was about six p.m. on Tuesday. Twenty-four hours had passed since Martin had finally taken the mystery out of his mysterious background, and had been assured, in turn, that my ex-husband was absolutely, positively, one hundred percent ex. You can imagine how I’d been obsessing over that conversation, and wondering (okay, fantasizing) about the kind of future we might have together.
I’d decided to take a break from my giddy musings to swing by The Gabbling Goose and see what Ty had decided to do about the little room where Percival Ruskin had died. I’d left SB at home this time. It was my fourth visit in the past three weeks. One of these days I really ought to rent a room—well, maybe not alone—and have the whole Gabbling Goose experience.
Gilbert and Darla Ruskin stood in the front parlor, looking ill at ease. Gilbert wore a dark suit and tie, just as he had at this brother’s funeral. Likewise, his wife wore yet another dumpy jacket dress, identical to the ones I’d previously seen her in, except for the color. This one was a muddy olive green that would have flattered precisely no one. I could only assume she’d gotten a volume discount.
Darla’s distracted gaze skittered over the antique furnishings, the portrait of Oswald Collingwood, and the enormous cat grooming itself on the bottom step of the staircase, before coming to rest on yours truly. She blinked in surprise.
“Hi, Darla,” I said. “Remember me?” You’ll be happy to know I refrained from asking if she’d reconsidered my job offer as an entrails-mopping intern. Oh, but I wanted to so bad.
See? I can be mature when the occasion calls for it. Most of the time, anyway.
Darla’s mouth tightened into a thin line. If she wondered what the heck the disgusting Death Demon was doing there, she didn’t give voice to the thought. Which meant both of us were doing a good job in the maturity department. I was darn proud of us.
“Sure you folks wouldn’t like something to drink?” Shelley asked the couple. “Last call.” Disapproval rolled off her in waves. I could tell she chafed at having Ruskins darken The Gabbling Goose’s doorstep. I wouldn’t be surprised if she sprayed the place down with disinfectant after they left.
“Thanks, but we can’t stay.” Gilbert turned to Ty. “We just wanted to, uh, discuss something with you, Mr. Collingwood.”
“Please, call me Ty.” He gestured toward the seating area, and they chose the love seat Martin and I had occupied the night of Stu’s death. Gilbert sat like a normal person, while Darla perched on the edge as if ready to flee at a moment’s notice.
I gave a little wave. “I’ll say goodbye now.”
“Oh, don’t rush off, Jane.” Amy seized my wrist and steered me to one of the antique armchairs. I got the feeling she was worried about a possible confrontation between her father and the Ruskins, and figured my presence might keep them from going at it. “Mr. Ruskin said this won’t take long.”
“Uh, you can call me Gil,” he said, because it would have been awkward not to. Mrs. Ruskin apparently had nothing against awkwardness, because she remained mute.
Ty sat on the sofa, next to his daughter. “I think I can guess what brought you here, Gil.”
The Ruskins exchanged frowns. Darla rested her hand on her husband’s arm, wordlessly telling him to let her handle it. “And what would that be, Mr. Collingwood?”
“I should have reached out to you when your ancestor’s remains were discovered in the basement,” Ty said. “It was wrong of me not to. It honestly didn’t occur to me, but of course, that’s no excuse. You shouldn’t have had to learn about it from the police.”
Darla said, “We learned about it from the TV news. And it seems you need to be reminded—” she shook off her husband’s warning touch “—that Percival was not the only Ruskin to die on your property.”
Okay, I knew for a fact that Gil and Darla hadn’t learned about Stu’s death on the TV news. The police notified them. And what did she think Ty should have told them at the time? I’m sorry that your brother, who’d been manipulating and deceiving my daughter for close to a year, and scheming to get his greedy mitts on my ancestral estate, trespassed onto my property and blew his brains out.
Ty’s features hardened fractionally, but he was a gentleman and knew the right words. “Please accept my apologies for that lapse, as well, Mrs. Ruskin. I should have been in touch.”
Darla didn’t seem to know what to do with that. Finally she gave a curt nod, not meeting Ty’s gaze.
“It occurs to me,” Ty said, “that you might want to view the location where Percival was found. A bricklayer is down there right now, sealing up that space again, but if you’re interested, I can ask him to hold off for a bit.”
Gil and Darla shared an unspoken communication. I could almost hear them wondering whether an invitation to view the bloody hot tub would be next on the agenda. “I don’t think so,” Gil said, “but thanks for the offer.”
“Let me ask you, Gil,” Ty said. “Have Percival’s remains been released to you yet?”
“Well, uh, we can have them anytime we want,” he said. “I’m just not sure what to... I mean...”
“Cremation,” Darla said. “Simple and respectful.”
And cheap, I thought. Don’t forget cheap. We all know you’re thinking it.
Gil studied his shoes. “Or, uh, donation. Of the, uh, bones. We were thinking science might be interested.”
Quick! Someone get Science on the phone!
“Well, of course it’s up to you,” Ty said, “but I believe it would be appropriate for Percival to be laid to rest in Whispering Willows Cemetery, in the older historic section next to his immediate family members.”
The Collingwood ancestors were also in the historic section, which was the boneyard’s priciest precinct. Darla’s nostrils flared, while Gil turned an embarrassed shade of pink as he struggled to come up with a response.
Ty startled me by saying, “I’m glad Jane’s here. We can take advantage of her expertise. I feel a responsibility to your family, Gil. I can never make up for the reprehensible actions of my ancestor Sybille Collingwood, but if you’ll allow me, I would like to offer Percival a cemetery plot, a casket, and all the expenses associated with a dignified Christian funeral.”
The Ruskins were stunned into silence. Amy’s face relaxed into a near smile. She gave her father’s hand a little squeeze.
“The particulars would be up to you, of course,” Ty continued, “and you probably want to handle those yourself—”
How we all managed to keep a straight face, I don’t know.
“—but we have the expert sitting right here.” Ty gestured in my direction. “This sort of thing is right in Jane’s wheelhouse, and she has an outstanding reputation for attention to detail. I’d like to hire her to take care of the arrangements, subject to your approval, of course, Gil.”
I could see Darla’s parsimonious nature warring with her intense dislike of me. Finally she and Gil exchanged a little nod. It would seem she was kind of okay with letting the disgusting Death Demon arrange Percy’s sendoff as long as someone else picked up the tab.
Ty turned to me. “I should ask Jane if this is something she’s interested in taking on.”
“Of course,” I said. “I can begin working on it immediately.”
“Well, uh, thank you, Ty,” Gil said. “That’s very generous of you.”
“Please. I’m happy to do it,” Ty said, and I believed him. “I just wish... things had turned out differently way back then.”
Could this be the beginning of a long-awaited rapprochement between the Collingwoods and the Ruskins?
“Well, I feel good about this.” Ty started to rise. “Jane will coordinate with you—”
“We actually, uh, came here about something else,” Gil said.
“Oh.” Ty resumed his seat. “Whatever it is, I hope I can help.”
“It’s not like that. It has to do with... well, a few days ago, Jane here mentioned something to my wife. She, uh, didn’t think anything of it at the time, right, dear?”
Darla just gestured for him to continue.
“Yeah, so anyway,” Gil said, “then that skeleton turns up, and the news stories are all talking about the poisoned punch. You know, the, uh, punch Sybille made Percival drink?”
“They know about the poisoned punch, for crying out loud.” Darla jerked her head toward me. “She told me Percival stole Sybille’s punch recipe way back when. She wanted to know if anyone in the family still had it.”
Amy’s brow crinkled. “You were looking for the punch recipe, Jane?”
I addressed Ty. “I was just trying to do you a favor. You were so anxious to find that old recipe, and I just happened to be speaking with Darla, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity to do a little digging. I know you don’t believe anyone in the Ruskin family still has it, but I thought, what the heck, it couldn’t hurt to ask.”
Ty turned to the Ruskins. “I assume the answer is no, that the recipe is long gone.”
“Well, uh, here’s the thing,” Gil said, and Ty went very still. I sensed him holding his breath. “Turns out, Stu had that old recipe all along. I guess it kind of, uh, slipped Darla’s mind when Jane brought it up.”
Darla’s snide expression told me it had not, in fact, slipped her mind.
Ty was on his feet. “This is incredible news! Did you bring it with you?”
“I didn’t know it belonged to your family.” Gil sounded defensive. “Or that one of our ancestors, you know, stole it. Darla didn’t mention it until after his, uh, skeleton turned up. By then, everyone knew about it. It was all over the news.”
“That’s all right.” Ty’s eyes shone with excitement. “It’s all in the past. Where’s the recipe now?”
Amy tugged on his arm, urging him to sit. He did so, with obvious reluctance.
“I never even knew the darn thing existed,” Gil said. “I never heard of an old punch recipe. No one in my family ever—”
“Gil!” Ty was making a conspicuous effort to rein in his impatience. He leaned forward and spoke slowly and clearly. “Where is it?”
“I don’t have it.”
Ty’s jaw tightened. “Stu knew how much that recipe meant to me, but I can’t believe he’d have destroyed it, just to spite me.”
“No, no, nothing like that,” he said. “I mean I, uh... I know where it is.”
Darla rolled her eyes. “For the love of God, can’t you just say it? The recipe was buried with Stu.”
At that instant, the front door swung open and two couples in their seventies entered, chatting and laughing and having a merry old time—until they spied our little group, sitting there in thunderstruck silence.
One of the newcomers, a portly gentleman who appeared to have enjoyed a couple of cocktails with dinner, quipped, “Whatsamatter, folks? You related to that stiff they found in the basement?”
He guffawed at his own wit until Darla skewered him with a hard stare and said, “Yes. Also the stiff they found in the hot tub. Any more questions?”
They say you can’t sober up instantly. I’m here to tell you they lied.
The jokester bleated something unintelligible as his friends yanked him through the entrance to the drawing room. Seconds later I heard them scurry into the enclosed porch and slam the door.
Ty took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His voice was dangerously calm as he said, “How is that possible, Gil? That the recipe was buried with him?”
“It’s not my fault. I was just following Stu’s instructions.”
“What instructions?”
Darla said, “The instructions in his will. My brother-in-law had very specific requirements regarding his burial.”
Not specific enough, I thought, remembering that sad excuse for a funeral.
Amy said, “I’m guessing one of those requirements involved the recipe for Sybbie’s Punch.”
“Well, uh, he called it Peg Leg Punch,” Gil said, “but yeah, he said it had to be buried with him.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “It was the only copy in existence.”
Gil nodded. “His will told us where to find the recipe. It was in a sealed envelope in his home safe. I was, uh, forbidden to open the envelope or make a copy of the contents. I had to place the envelope in the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. You know, the suit he was buried in. So, uh, that’s what I did.”
Amy was casting furtive glances at her father. It was clear she was worried about him, hoping he wouldn’t get too worked up.
Darla said something last week that I didn’t give much thought to at the time. Maybe I should have. We did the right thing, even following his kooky burial instructions to the letter.
Okay, I’ve seen kookier, but this one definitely earned its place on the kooky spectrum.
“I felt obligated,” Gil told Ty, “to follow the instructions in Stu’s will. I, uh, saw it as my final duty to my brother, never mind that we didn’t get along so well. But I want you to know, I never would’ve done it if I knew how important that old recipe was to you, or, uh, that one of my people stole it from one of your people.”
Darla couldn’t let that alone. “I’d say Sybille got back at Percival, and then some. I never heard of anything so wicked in my life as what that woman did to him.”
“Ty already told us how bad he feels about that,” Gil said, in the first display of backbone I’d witnessed from him. “It wasn’t his fault, what his ancestor did way back when, but he’s trying to make it right, and I appreciate that.”
Ty acknowledged this with a small nod, pointedly avoiding Darla’s malignant glare.
“And our Percival,” Gil continued, “he was no saint either. He deliberately got Sybille’s husband killed. And can I just point out? All this happened hundreds of years ago. I’d say it’s time for everyone to move on and start getting along.”
If Darla compressed her lips any tighter, they’d fuse together. Hey, it’s just science.
Amy looked relieved. “That’s what we want, too. Right, Dad?”
Ty appeared preoccupied. “Of course.”
“Anyway...” Gil stood, prompting the rest of us to do the same. “I, uh, figured you and your family had a right know, Ty. About what became of that old recipe.”
“Gil,” Ty said, “how certain are you that the envelope you buried with your brother contained the recipe? Isn’t it possible you put the wrong envelope in his pocket?”
Gil shook his head. “There was writing on the outside of it. ‘Percival Ruskin’s recipe for Peg Leg Punch, 1668.’” After a moment he added, “Nothing any of us can do at this point.”
“That might not be strictly true,” Ty said.
Amy placed her hand on his arm. “Dad? I know you don’t mean...” She glanced nervously at the Ruskins.
“Why not?” Ty said. “It could be done very discreetly, when the cemetery’s closed to the public. You wouldn’t even have to be there, Gil, you’d just need to give permission. I’ll cover all expenses, naturally.”
“Now, wait a minute, Ty.” Gil frowned. “I’m not about to disturb my brother’s final rest for a piece of paper.”
“The very idea—” Darla snapped her mouth shut when her husband shot her a stern look I suspected she hadn’t seen very often. The message was clear. I’ll handle this.
“Please just consider it,” Ty said. “The burial’s still fresh. It’s been, what, just over a week. The exhumation would be done with the utmost respect, I give you my word.”
“You’re asking too much, Ty. If you, uh, feel the need to take back your offer to bury Percival, I’ll understand—”
“No, of course not. One has nothing to do with the other.” Ty appeared crestfallen as he opened the front door. “Thank you for coming by, Gil. Mrs. Ruskin.”