| |
––––––––
August 8th, 1992 Keener’s Island, WA
PADGET was supposed to be a proper butler, and he didn’t think a proper butler should be waiting at table, but he hadn’t had much time to research what the job entailed before he took it. Though he didn’t suppose it mattered how authentic his performance was, as long as it satisfied his nominal employer. So it was fortunate that Brandt Keener seemed to know next to nothing about butlers.
Pushing the trolley with the first course into the dining room, Padget contained a sigh and refrained from shaking his head. Windowless with expensive wood paneling and a little too cramped, it was a depressing space. The brilliantly glittering chandelier hanging over the table seemed somehow only to exacerbate the feeling of gloom. This whole place was merely a facsimile of a stately manor, and one suggesting old British aristocracy rather than trying to scrupulously copy it. Maybe the owner didn’t care. Brandt Keener was a man who wanted whatever he wanted, however ridiculous it might be, and almost always got it. Like his meals.
Padget ladled a precise cup of consommé into a shallow bowl on a plate before handing it over to the maid. Talia didn’t know any more about her proper duties than he, but she certainly performed in ways that weren’t proper at all, and Keener didn’t object. Mrs. Trimble knew what she was doing though—the woman was a veritable Julia Child. She was allowed to make these mostly epicurean repasts, but Brandt always insisted on steak and baked potatoes for the main course. Well, he did hail from Texas. But Mrs. Trimble’s considerable talents were wasted here.
This house on Keener’s small private island was only a vacation spot, a place for the busy billionaire to get away from the demands of the corporation he helmed at its headquarters in the Seattle suburbs—over the past few months though, Brandt had begun to spend more and more time here. By himself.
So the three of them on staff who lived here full time still had little to do in terms of their official duties, though Mrs. Trimble appreciated being able to cook for her employer more often. And she was really happy tonight.
Passing plate after plate to Talia to be placed in front of each diner at the table, Padget decided this had to be some special occasion to have brought all these guests out to this isolated island. No one had told him what that might be though. And he needed to know, if he was going to do the job he came to do. Tonight’s dinner party should’ve called for a few extra staff being brought in, to save Padget and Talia from doing so much. But it was better this way.
The maid had been enjoying herself until today, and it wasn’t just the extra work that had put her in a bad mood—Brandt’s current wife was one of those in attendance. Elaine Keener usually stayed at their house in the suburbs with her son Stanley when her husband retreated to this place. This weekend both Brandt’s wife and son had come.
Padget took the chilled bottle of wine, an Andalusian Amontillado, and carefully removed the cork. Wrapping the bottle in a white napkin, he carried it to the head of the table and poured the first glass for Keener. This, at least, seemed a more fitting activity for a butler. And once again he was grateful that his employer most likely would not recognize a mistake if Padget made one.
Moving to the left, Padget poured wine for Mrs. Keener, then for her son the slacker. Stanley might be the male child Brandt had wanted, but he hardly seemed the heir the man had apparently hoped for. The current Mrs. Keener might soon be replaced by a new model with new genes. Certainly, if one went by Brandt’s past performance.
Padget glanced down to where the former, and first, Mrs. Keener sat at the foot of the table glaring daggers at her ex-husband. Not surprising that the woman was bitter, but since she had likely come to this dinner to keep her daughter Stephanie in Keener’s good graces, and in his will, she should’ve been at least attempting to hide her hatred of her former husband. Maybe she couldn’t.
Tipping a small swallow of wine into Mr. Quill’s glass for the traditional toast—it disagreed with his digestion—Padget then moved down and filled Barbara Keener’s glass to the rim in sympathy. Glancing up at the daughter, he saw the girl making eyes at Brandt’s confidential assistant, the man’s literal right-hand man tonight. It didn’t do to have a man as handsome as Mr. Hope hanging around. Elaine Keener kept flashing him come hither looks as well, and it was obvious there would be trouble sooner or later. One way or another.
Proceeding to Mr. Oak, Padget poured out a full glass for him too. Brandt’s personal money manager was a gourmand, in this case just a fancy word for glutton, and he had an unhealthy appetite for alcohol. He also had a great distaste for Mr. Quill, who sat opposite. Keener regularly had his chief financial officer audit Oak and vice versa, so the two men had no love for each other. And one of them had to be the expert Brandt was trusting to help him hide his assets.
This house and the island were worth quite a lot of money, no doubt, but they were hardly liquid. So Keener had to have some more ready capital stashed somewhere, and one of those two money men had to know where. The obvious choice would be Brandt’s personal financial guru, but Padget couldn’t rely on Keener to have done the expected.
Whether it was to try to stiff the government of its due or to keep his riches from his ex and soon to be ex wives, Brandt had been slowly siphoning off a fortune from his personal estate. The why was less important than the where to, though, and that was something to which Padget had yet to find even one clue. Perhaps if Oak became sufficiently inebriated tonight, the man might let something slip.
Although come to think of it, the only person at this table that Keener seemed to trust was the mysterious Mr. Hope. But it was difficult to imagine the confidential assistant making any mistakes. If that man were the only one who knew what Brandt was up to with his money, Padget would have little hope of finding it. That couldn’t be the case.
Filling Hope’s glass to round things off, Padget removed himself to the corner and returned his observation to the man who mattered most. Brandt’s behavior had become increasingly paranoid of late. He’d had his homes and offices swept for bugs several times over the past few months, but it was only an intensification of Keener’s natural pattern of activity. He wasn’t the trusting type. Perhaps in this one thing he wouldn’t have confided in the man he trusted with all else. Maybe nobody but Brandt really knew what he’d been doing.
If only they could piece together enough to give them an idea where to start looking for the money, it might get Padget his reward. He’d be well quit of this place then.
He cut off those thoughts as Keener rose to his feet. The man picked up his wine glass by the bowl and gently swirled the liquid around with every appearance of deep contemplation. Brandt liked pretending he was a connoisseur. Sniffing the bouquet before taking a small sip, he rolled the mouthful of wine around his tongue.
With a satisfied smile he swallowed. “Now,” he began as he lifted his glass a little higher to proffer a toast.
But before he could continue, a strange look appeared on his face, then he convulsed with a violent jerk, his back arching as he moaned in pain. Dropping his glass, wine splashed as he crashed into the arm of his chair on the way to the floor where he lay in a heap. He seized a couple more times upon the carpet, then went still.
The right-hand man leaped out of his chair and knelt beside his employer on the ground, feeling the man’s neck for a pulse. He placed his hands on top of each other over Keener’s chest, pushing his palms down in a rhythmic beat trying to resuscitate him—at least that was what it looked like. From Padget’s vantage point he couldn’t be sure.
Everyone else sat frozen in their seats, watching with a kind of sick fascination. After a few minutes, Hope stood with a somber expression and shook his head, then glanced around at the rest with a hooded look in his eyes.
When he spoke, his voice was flat and emotionless. “Mr. Keener has died.”
The announcement produced another long moment of silence, and Padget could almost see wheels spinning in people’s brains. Nobody seemed upset. If anything, most were probably pleased—they were also likely considering the awkwardness of the situation. It was problematic for Padget too.
Most of the people here had a motive to murder Keener. Were they all wondering if they’d just witnessed a homicide—or did one of them perhaps not need to guess what had happened?
Whatever any of them thought, Padget wagered no one wanted to involve the police. He himself was torn. An official investigation would hinder his own work, but how would it look if he helped hush up the suspicious death?
When at long last Elaine Keener was the one to break the silence, her words were no surprise. “My poor Brandt.” She gave Mr. Hope a quivering look. “I didn’t know he had a bad heart, but it must have been that, mustn’t it?”
It was Mr. Quill who frowned around at the rest before agreeing with her. “Yes, a heart attack.”
Padget considered it probable that one of these people had poisoned the man, but that wasn’t really his concern. Murder or not, Keener’s death complicated everything. The important question was what to do next.
Keener’s confidential assistant had clearly been thinking the same thing. “I need to notify the proper people. I think it would be best for the rest of you to leave the room.” He turned to Padget with an air of authority. “You and Talia can serve them the remainder of the meal in the parlor, I’m sure. While I take care of Mr. Keener.”
Padget nodded and wondered whom Hope had meant by the proper people. The police? He had his own priorities about whom to call, and his own worry over whether it meant the end of this job.
* * *
August 28th, 1992 off Keener’s Island, WA
JAKE piloted his beloved ferry slowly and carefully across the foggy waters off the coast, keeping a close eye on his bearings and glancing out occasionally to peer into the thick mists for the first sight of the old boathouse and the little pier. Brandt Keener hadn’t been a man interested in boats or sailing, for all that he’d bought his own island, and he’d owned no boat. The billionaire himself had always traveled by helicopter, but he rarely extended the luxury to those he invited to be his guests, even to members of his own family. Instead, Keener had had the old boathouse converted into a kind of drive-through garage with a pier. And Jake got paid to ferry the guests and their vehicles across from the mainland.
There was no regular service to these small, private islands, so he was able to pad his retirement by taking these special chartered trips out at the whim of rich men like Keener. Jake loved the water, so he enjoyed sailing the coastal waters in the little luxury craft he’d bought with some of his savings. He had fun playing captain too. It wasn’t all carrying these wealthy folk, either—they had servants, though you weren’t supposed to call them that these days. Staff like butlers and maids amounted to the same thing, though, at least in Jake’s mind. Once a week he also made a bit taking a team of landscapers and a group of cleaners out to Keener’s Island. While he waited on them to do their work, he’d walk up to the mansion and sit in the kitchen and have a talk with Mrs. Trimble. He liked chatting with the cook. Even better, they would enjoy a nice piece of cake and a cup of tea together.
It was a good life. Jake cast a contented glance around the pilothouse, grateful for that Providence that led him to just the right boat to suit his needs. He’d had it outfitted with a turntable ramp, just the thing to carry a couple of cars and load the vehicles on and off. And these special charters gave him the chance to meet some interesting characters, such as the two standing shrouded in the fog at the bow by the railing, staring out at the water.
His proper passengers were all below, enjoying the journey in the comfort of the stateroom. Both of Keener’s wives, the ex and the widow, and their two children—you wouldn’t find any of them up on deck savoring the sea air and the fog and the mist. Jake doubted the superior butler and maid who lived out there would lower themselves like that either. The two he was bringing over had to be temporary help for the weekend.
No extra hands had been brought in for the fateful dinner three weeks ago, though. And now those same guests were returning for this important gathering, the reading of Keener’s will. Jake read newspapers, and like everyone else he thought there was something fishy going on, whether or not the man’s death had been deemed natural or not. And for all that the case was closed, there appeared to be questions about it still.
Jake studied the brawny man in the bow, wondering what he was meant to do for them on the island. Someone to do the heavy lifting? What was it they called the chaps who carried guests’ luggage in and brought the logs for the fireplaces? Footman? The man looked about right to do that kind of work. He certainly wasn’t the refined sort who’d be a butler, but then they already had one of those, and they would hardly want two.
The dark-haired wisp of a woman standing next to him had to be another maid. She was young and pretty, but remote. Fey-looking with those elfin features, even, and not the sort to do hard work. They had the cleaners Jake brought over for that, though they were never around when the guests were there. He figured that was when the maids had to do their part.
There was no reason for him to stick around after he’d delivered this bunch to the island, and then there’d be another group to bring over this evening. And the lawyer too, tomorrow morning. Not one of these trips would Jake be able to walk up with them to the house and spend some time eating Mrs. Trimble’s cooking.
It wasn’t the way he’d prefer to spend his weekend, but it couldn’t be helped. And he could use the money. At least he’d have Sunday to himself. Until the afternoon when he’d probably have to return to take some of the guests away.
He glanced ahead at the pair standing in the fog and blinked. Only the man stood there now, still as a post and alone—the girl had disappeared.
Jake scratched his beard and cast his mind back to when he’d picked up his passengers at the pier on the mainland. He hadn’t seen that fey creature with them when they’d come on board, though he’d seen the man. He’d only seen her just now in the mists. Had she ever really been there? She might’ve been nothing but a ghost.
Shaking his head, he dismissed the idea. Sometimes strange notions would come to him, produced by the combination of cold morning air and the fog. They dissipated easily enough in the sunlight.
He got his bearings back and focused on finding the old boathouse. It took skill and attention to position the ramp right, and he didn’t have the time to daydream.