§ § § - November 17, 1979
While they were gone, he set up B.J. Farley at his tea with Valeska DeMarco, and to Leslie's surprise, she found herself told to wait with Tattoo at the main house till Roarke returned. Wondering what was going on, she ended up in suspense all the way to their destination—a large old three-story with a stone turret and ornate Queen-Anne woodwork not unlike that of the main house, located well down the northern side of the island with its rear flush with the edge of a low cliff. "Well, here we are."
"I hope I can pass as the contessa and the contessa pass as my secretary," fretted Betty as they got out of the car and climbed the steps to the front porch.
"Don't worry," Tattoo advised. "It will be a piece of cake." Leslie hoped he was right.
"What a creepy place," Betty remarked as they neared the front door.
"Uh, yes…however, Mr. Deveraux's will stipulates that it be read here at Black Cliff Manor, precisely one year to the day of his unfortunate…uh, demise," said Roarke.
Christina, now wearing understated clothing and glasses, was peering at the porch ceiling. "Cousin Duncan used to say that Black Cliff Manor was haunted."
Before anyone could respond to this, there was an ominous creaking behind them, and all five of them slowly turned to watch the door drifting open, apparently all on its own. Betty peered at Roarke and said, "He was kidding, I hope."
"I hope so too," Tattoo concurred.
"Well, Tattoo?" Roarke prompted.
"Well what, boss?" At which Roarke gestured him forward; Tattoo riposted with a who, me? gesture, and Roarke nodded firmly. Reluctantly Tattoo led the way into a large, formal foyer paneled entirely in foreboding-looking dark wood, with a curving staircase leading to the upper floor. As soon as they were all inside, the door creaked slowly shut again, and once more they all turned to watch it.
The click of its latch must have caught someone's attention, for a voice exclaimed, "Ah, Mr. Roarke!" Everyone started, even Roarke, to Leslie's gratification; her guardian sometimes seemed too imperturbable! A dark-haired man with a half-full brandy glass in one hand emerged from a room at the right of the door. "I see you've finally arrived…and which of you two ladies is Cousin Christina?"
Betty rose admirably to the occasion. "I am."
"Charmed," said the strange man, kissing Betty's hand. "I'm Cousin Nicky. They, uh, say we used to play together as children."
"Uh, uh, uh yes…th-that's right," Betty fumbled, trying to look regal and failing miserably, at least in Leslie's uninformed opinion.
"Before black became beautiful, I was the black sheep of the family," Nicky remarked conversationally. "Don't know where that leaves me now." Leslie had to grin at that; Betty smiled, clearly unsure what to say to such a comment. Casting a glance in Christina's direction, Nicky edged in closer to Betty and muttered, "Who's she?"
"Oh…uh, that-that's my private secretary, Fifi—" At the same time Christina interjected, "Lois," and Betty hastily switched tracks, correcting meekly, "Uh, Lois." Leslie had to stifle another giggle while Christina threw a rather doubtful look at Roarke, who smiled.
"Come with me and I'll introduce you to the others," Nicky suggested. "We were just having a drink when you arrived." He retreated into the room he'd come from, and the rest of them sidled along in his wake. The other occupants of the room arose as they went in. "Uh, lady and gentlemen, it's a great pleasure for me to introduce you to Cousin Christina on my immediate left, and her private secretary, Lois. Christina, this is Cousin Sylvia. Next to her we have Samuel Blade, Duncan's former business partner." Betty nodded; Sylvia, too, had a well-filled brandy glass in hand, and looked older than she probably really was, with her wavy dark hair going liberally to gray and her eyes faraway, as though she were on her way to a good bender. Samuel Blade looked cool and reserved. "And last but not least, we have Mr. Algernon Pepperhill, Cousin Duncan's lawyer, and now executor to his estate." Pepperhill was a spare man with a receding hairline; he gave a cool nod, the end of one earpiece of his glasses tucked between his lips.
Betty beamed at them all. "Hi, everybody!" she greeted them in friendly tones.
They seemed shocked; glances were exchanged and Christina blinked. When Betty saw Nicky's amused look, her smile faltered and she cleared her throat, lowering her voice in an attempt to sound more formal and restrained. "What I mean is, how nice to…see you all."
"Drink, Cousin Christina?" Sylvia inquired in a somewhat bored voice. "Uh, or should I address you as Contessa?"
In the same stilted, pseudo-formal voice, Betty replied, "Christina will suit me just fine…and as for the drink, no thanks." Sylvia squinted at her as if unable to understand why anyone would refuse a drink; Leslie saw her brandy glass waving dangerously about.
Thankfully, Roarke intervened. "It has been a very long journey for our two ladies; I suggest they repair to their rooms and freshen up. Uh, Contessa?…Miss, um, Smith…" At which Leslie noticed Algernon Pepperhill staring assessingly at them, and began to get nervous on Betty's behalf. Why had Roarke picked the most common surname in America?
By the time rooms had been chosen for Christina and Betty and they were settling in, there was a storm brewing and Leslie couldn't wait to leave. Tattoo clearly felt the same way. "Boss, I don't like this place," he muttered as they descended the stairs.
"Yes, it is rather eerie, isn't it," Roarke agreed amiably, looking around the foyer with what Leslie was sure was some sort of misplaced admiration.
"Now that we've taken care of the ladies, why don't we get out of here?" Tattoo said.
"Yeah, that's a great idea," Leslie put in, wincing at a rumble of thunder.
"Oh no, no, no…one of us must remain and look after our guests," chided Roarke.
Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other, and in exact unison chorused, "I nominate you," each pointing at the other.
Amused, Roarke said, "Oh, come, come, you two, there is nothing to fear! I would stay myself, but you know that's impossible, what with all my other obligations. Leslie, I think you and Miss Foster established a bit of a rapport back at the main house, and after all, was it not you who argued that she deserved a chance to solve a case?" Leslie gasped, and Tattoo's face relaxed into a wide grin.
"But—I mean—you can't be serious!" she cried.
"I am," Roarke said. "You'll be sharing a room with Miss Foster, and you have a bag waiting for you in there. And if you should need me, why, there's always the telephone."
"Just a phone call away," singsonged Tattoo cheerfully. She shot him a look.
"Tattoo," Roarke said, and he shrugged unrepentantly. "I have faith in you, Leslie."
She looked nervously around the foyer. "Well," she mumbled, "I guess you're right, there's nothing to be scared of."
"Nothing!" Roarke agreed. He glanced around, smiled broadly and exclaimed, "Ah, lovely old place…lovely." With that, he and Tattoo left, leaving Leslie stranded.
"Geez," she muttered. "Nothing to fear, huh? Except a killer, you mean!" At that precise second lightning filled the room and thunder exploded; she let out a shriek of terror and fled up the stairs to the room she was sharing with Betty, desperate for company.
‡ ‡ ‡
It was a quiet, nervous group who gathered in the dining room for the reading of the will; only Algernon Pepperhill seemed at ease. Pepperhill cleared his throat and lifted some papers. "Rather than reading the entire will at this time, I think I'll just summarize it." He glanced around. "That is, if there are no objections." At which more glances were exchanged; Leslie, standing beside Christina's chair, stole a look at her and met the contessa's gaze for a second or two. Sylvia made the only sound, setting her depleted brandy glass on the table with a clank.
Pepperhill nodded. "Very well, then. Um, simply put, Duncan Deveraux left an estate of ten million dollars, to be divided equally among the four of you. The will also stipulates that should any of the beneficiaries die before probate, then the dead person's portion is to be divided among the survivors."
Samuel Blade spoke, catching everyone's surprised attention. "Well then—and I'm speaking theoretically, of course—if there's only one survivor at the time of probate, the entire ten million goes to him." He seemed to belatedly remember the women. "Or her."
"Correct," Pepperhill said, then smiled slightly. "But of course, such an eventuality will never come to pass."
"You mean foul play from one of us," Nicky said, his prematurely jowly face adorned with a careless half-smile. "After all, we're a loving family, right?"
Sylvia gave him a look that screamed cynicism. "Right," she muttered.
"Certainly," Nicky said, as if to say, there, you see?
"Positively," agreed Blade in his slightly British-flavored alto.
"Of course," chimed in Betty, with that wide-eyed look of hers.
A boom of thunder accompanied a stronger gust of wind, and the window behind Christina's chair, which evidently hadn't been properly latched, blew open. Sylvia squealed as Christina jumped out of her chair and Leslie ducked aside to avoid the swinging windowpanes. Nicky and Blade ran to secure the window while Sylvia moaned, "I wish I'd stayed home!" While the men were closing the window, Leslie heard the telltale buzzing of a failing power unit; she noticed the one on the wall—oddly, with a clock in front of it that happened to say exactly midnight—sparking ominously. Seconds later, the chandelier flickered and died, leaving the fire as the only light in the room. Sylvia screamed, and while a part of Leslie couldn't quite blame her, she was already a little tired of the woman's overblown reactions.
"Turn on the lights," said either Nicky or Blade, Leslie wasn't sure which.
"Everybody stay calm!" Betty advised.
Leslie, realizing no one else was moving, sighed to herself and groped toward the wall, patting it till she located the switchplate with four old-fashioned buttons on it. She punched each one to no avail. "They don't work," she said.
They began to pile out of the dining room to hunt down candles; Sylvia scuttled after Nicky, while Betty collared Leslie and Christina. "Let's check in the library."
Leslie decided the situation was dicey enough to get hold of Roarke, and told the women she planned to look for a phone. Betty agreed and accompanied Christina into the library, which was even darker than the dining room, to search out candles. Leslie bumped into the wall before reorienting herself and venturing into the black void behind them.
"It's so dark in here, and I'm blind as a bat," Betty complained, then gasped loudly; they heard a quick series of thumps, and the floor vibrated slightly. Leslie rolled her eyes to herself, realizing she must have tripped on something and hit the floor. She began patting the surface of every piece of furniture she came up against.
"Oh—hey, I-I found some matches," Christina called.
There were more thumping sounds, then another gasp and a squawk from Betty, and the sound of something ceramic shattering onto the floor. "What was that?" Leslie cried.
"It's only me," Betty groaned, and Leslie followed the sound of her voice, unable to locate a telephone anywhere. Just as her eyes finally adjusted and a flash of lightning helped her orient herself, Betty turned to her with something in her hands. "I have some good news and some bad news," she said in a half-whisper.
"What's the good news?" Leslie asked, figuring they could use some.
Betty lifted the object in her hands. "The good news is, I found the phone." Heartened, Leslie grabbed the receiver; but before she could make another move, Betty went on, "The bad news is…" She again lifted one hand. "The wire's been cut!"
Leslie sighed heavily. "Maybe I should go get Mr. Roarke. This is getting crazy." Before Betty could protest, she groped her way out to the foyer and pulled open the door, only to find herself fighting against the fast-rising wind. There was no way she was going out into that storm! It took her a couple of minutes to get the door shut again—and just as she did, there was a loud bang that made her cry out and freeze with her back against the door.
People began emerging from the library and the curving staircase. "That was a gunshot," Betty exclaimed.
"Where did it come from?" inquired Samuel Blade from the steps.
"From in there, I think," squeaked Leslie, pointing a shaking hand toward the dining room they had abandoned earlier.
Slowly the entire group crept into the room; then lightning illuminated the scene and Sylvia, predictably, screamed. Algernon Pepperhill was slumped over in the chair where he had been reading the will earlier, his eyes closed, his body limp.
Betty stole over to him, felt for a pulse, then raised horrified eyes. "He's dead!"
More lightning showed that the table was empty. "The will is gone," Nicky confirmed, and at this Christina and Leslie looked at each other again. Leslie had the feeling she was trapped in a very bad imitation of a Sherlock Holmes case.
Nicky and Blade finally seemed to recover, and together they gathered Pepperhill's body out of the chair and carted him out of the room through a curtained doorway to who knew where. Leslie supposed the house had its own morgue; at any rate, that wouldn't surprise her. Betty sighed, watching them go. "Well, we do seem to have a killer amongst us." Blade and Nicky came back just as she concluded, "The question is, who?"
"Why doesn't someone call the police?" Sylvia whined in despair.
"Because the phone line's been cut," said Leslie. "I tried to call Mr. Roarke earlier and that's when we found out."
"And in this storm, nobody can make it down the cliff for help," added Nicky.
"Let's face it, folks…we're stuck," said Betty starkly.
"The contessa's right," Blade ventured. "I suggest we all retire to our rooms and lock the doors until morning. Hopefully, the storm will pass by then. Good night." He left.
"Guess he's right," mused Nicky and followed him; Sylvia scurried after him like a mouse, still carrying the brandy glass she'd been nursing all night and insisting he wait for her. Betty, Christina and Leslie looked at each other.
Betty was indignant. "A killer on the loose, and they're going to bed!"
"What're we gonna do?" Leslie asked, hoping they'd be following suit.
"Lock the contessa in her room, and then have a look around," Betty said firmly, heading out without waiting for a reply. Leslie and Christina looked at each other again, then joined hands and hurried out after Betty. At least somebody was taking charge around this place, Leslie thought, feeling a little better from that alone.
It was nearing two in the morning by Betty's watch, and Leslie was yawning every five minutes, when Betty decided she had seen all she needed to, and they made their way up to their shared guest room. Betty peered in, ascertained that all was clear, and ushered Leslie inside. "What happens now?" the sleepy teenager queried through another yawn.
Betty headed for a round table across the room. "Well, with mayhem in the air, I just might need an equalizer," she said, picking up the purse she had dropped so much at the plane dock that morning. Leslie wandered to the window and cautiously checked on the weather, hoping it would have abated enough to let her sleep.
Then Betty gasped softly and she turned around. "What's wrong?"
"My gun!" Betty exclaimed. "I had it in my purse…somebody must have stolen it!" Leslie stared at her in amazement as she sank dejectedly onto the bed. "I'm some kind of detective—I even get my own gun ripped off!"
Leslie felt sorry for her and edged around the bed, offering a smile. "Don't worry. You still have me." She didn't bother adding, for whatever that's worth!
Betty's smile was grateful enough to make her glad she'd spoken. "Thanks, Leslie." She sighed. "Gee, I guess I'm blowing it. All my life I wanted to be a detective. I was a real Nancy Drew freak—I read every one of her books at least six times." Leslie grinned, remembering her younger days reading Nancy Drew mysteries. "And I did so much to prepare myself. I even took karate lessons."
Leslie was impressed. "Wow, you know karate?"
"First in my class," Betty said, and they traded smiles. Then she tilted her head at Leslie, as if for guidance. "What do you think I ought to do, Leslie?"
Leslie groped for some sort of intelligent response. "Um…" Then something clicked in her head—maybe some vestigial memory of one of those Nancy Drew books. "Well, first you find the will, and then go get the killer," she offered hopefully.
To her surprise, Betty said flatly, "That's ridiculous."
Leslie reared back, a little offended. "It is? Why?"
"Because I've got the will," Betty said. Leslie's mouth dropped while she pulled some papers out of the purse she'd slung aside. "I glommed onto it when the lights went out."
"What for?" was all Leslie could think to say.
"To read. Always check the fine print—that's chapter three of my correspondence course." With that, she began to go through the will while Leslie looked on, before a huge yawn suddenly overtook Leslie without warning. Betty looked up at her and smiled. "You'd better get some sleep," she advised.
"Yeah, I think you're right. Well, good night," Leslie murmured, and gathered her duffel bag off the cot that had been set up for her, to change in the bathroom and brush her teeth. She paused at the door, caught Betty's maternal smile, and for just a second missed her mother desperately. Smiling quickly back, she ducked out.
She was just opening the bathroom door after finishing, only to see a figure sneaking toward the staircase; Leslie froze and watched through the crack between the door and the jamb, recognizing Sylvia. She hooked the strap of her bag—the same one she'd brought from Susanville months before—securely over her head so it looped from one shoulder down to her other side; then she stole after Sylvia, watching the woman slipping down the stairs with surprising dexterity for one who had been drinking so devotedly all evening long.
Leslie paused in a shadow a few steps down and crouched behind the railing, watching Sylvia creep into the room where Pepperhill had been shot and disappear. The house, in spite of the growling storm, was quiet enough that she clearly heard Sylvia mutter, "The will must be here somewhere." Hah, Leslie thought, smirking to herself, and eased down a few more steps, till she hit the inevitable creaky tread. Without thinking, she whispered, "Shh," at it, as if the tread would heed her and promise to be quiet from now on.
When nothing happened, she stole down the rest of the steps and ventured into the dining room. It was dark and she could see very little, except when lightning flickered in the distance now and then. She paused in the middle of the floor, trying to get her bearings and decide what to do—and then behind her she heard a muted, but distinct, thump.
She whirled around, but nobody was there. Slowly Leslie pirouetted on one toe, scanning the room, only to realize she was alone—and unprotected at that. Maybe she'd better let Betty in on what she'd seen. She rushed up the stairs and let herself into the room, only to see that Betty was already asleep. With a sigh, she crawled onto the cot and tugged the covers over her shoulder, so tired now that she had no trouble dozing off.