“It’s only his apartment. That’s what Claude intended you to have. And its contents, subject to a few exclusions,” Mervyn adds, wincing like he’s bracing for her head to start spinning around.
“The penthouse has a charming view,” Mrs. A tells her, ready as always to see the upside of a situation. “And Claude did such a lovely job decorating.”
“But I’m his closest relative,” Bernie protests.
Grandma Lainey purses her lips, pretending to think this over. “Depends on your definition of ‘close.’”
The other woman ignores her, appealing to Mervyn instead. “This building is worth a fortune. Not in its current state”—she pauses to shudder—“but he can’t let a bunch of strangers live here for nothing.”
“That is the point of a will,” Mervyn reminds her. “To dispose of one’s worldly possessions according to the wishes of the deceased.”
“Unacceptable!” Bernie takes a step toward him, but Bradley puts a hand on her elbow, steering her toward the door.
“Let’s go talk to my dad,” he says.
“Claude may have been a pushover, but I know my rights,” Bernie yells over her shoulder as they disappear from view.
The exit loses some oomph when her nephew returns to grab the massive insulated tumbler from under her chair. Maybe she expected to sob herself dry and thought she’d need the hydration. The rattle and slosh as Bradley jogs back to Claude’s sister—giving me one last wink in passing—tells me it’s still full. Not surprising, considering she didn’t exactly seem overcome by grief.
Malia strikes the harp with an open hand. As the horror-movie sound reverberates around the dining room, I feel a chill of foreboding. I’ve witnessed dozens of murders at this place, but this is the first time I’ve felt genuinely unsettled at Castle Claude.
CHAPTER FOURTHE BODY IN THE PET FOOD EMPORIUM
“What now?” Mrs. A asks after the freaky harp vibrations fade into a tense silence.
Grandma Lainey draws herself up to her full height, beaming her confidence around the room like a lighthouse. “Now we open our letters from Claude.”
Mine starts like this:
WHO KILLED EUSTACE?
A mystery, by Claude!
The scene:Pet food magnate Eustace Whipplesmith has summoned his family and business associates to a glittering soiree at his palatial home. It’s a delicate time for Eustace’s Canned Consommés, with rivals competing for the top slot in the gourmet cat food industry.
Eustace’s sister Persephone has hired celebrated chef Gideon Banks to formulate a new line of feline entrées,and longtime marketing director Flavia McFadden has been ordered to restore the company to its former glory—or lose her job.
Meanwhile, Eustace’s son Jarvis is distracted from his duties by the arrival of a young journalist named Holly Harris, who has been invited to do a puff piece on the family business.
The party is in full swing, but there’s no sign of Eustace, apart from the extremely flattering portrait on the wall. Unfortunately for our debonair pet food peddler, he’s too dead to raise a toast to his own legacy.
Who killed Eustace? And how?
Your role:“Holly Harris,” allegedly a cub reporter but really the daughter of rival cat food impresario Ulysses Tempranillo.
Notable props:Chic raincoat; cocktail ring with secret compartment!
Objective:…
I stop reading when I feel someone breathing over my shoulder, and quickly press the paper to my stomach to hide my secret agenda.
“Seriously?” I say to Felix, because who else would try to cheat their way to victory?
“I was just coming over to ask who you are.”
As if. I think of everything Grandma Lainey has taught me about getting into character. First you choose a focal object to serve as a reference point, which in this case is obvious; I’llwear my ring, as Claude clearly intended. I slip it on, tucking the box into a pocket of my new coat, along with the letter. My hair is okay, but I smooth it over my ears to catch any wonky strays.
“So yeah,” Felix tries again. “I don’t know if you heard but I was asking—”
