The Tattered Thread, Page 2

CHAPTER TWO

  Elaine left the room and then walked off down the hall. The servants’ bedrooms had been built above the Kastenmeier’s six-car garage, which afforded all of their employees easy access into the kitchen, pantry, and basement areas. Descending the stairs cautiously, Elaine peeked over into the kitchen; the lights were on, but no one was there. Woolen druggets cushioned her steps, silencing her approach. Tasia’s tall, white chef’s hat was in its usual place in the far corner. Leaving the dining room, Elaine breezed past the rotund, high-vaulted foyer and then went into the family room. Hearing the discharge of a fire extinguisher made her feel anxious again; fires must have still been resulting from the blast. Someone had disarmed the smoke alarms, but it was unnerving to realize that the danger wasn’t over.

  Somebody had left the television and VCR on in the room, even though the movie had been stopped. A cigarette butt was in a crystal ash tray next to the pastel orange chaise longue, and an unfinished drink, perhaps Tasia’s usual sangría, had been left on the marble-topped coffee table. An orange, brown, and black glazed cotton cover lay against several matching silk cushions. Lois Kastenmeier would’ve fainted to see her finery so close to beverages and cigarette ash. Some banana bread was on a plate on the floor.

  Glancing over at the wet bar, Elaine discovered where Tasia’s drink had been mixed. Nothing was out of the ordinary, except that there was a second glass on the counter and it was empty. Streaking the far wall and darkening a good deal of the carpeting beside the bar was a liquid reeking of wine and brandy. A slice of lemon and an apple wedge were lying close by. Drafts coming from unknown places lifted the bangs from Elaine’s forehead and chilled her arms, peppering her skin with goose flesh; a brown velvet portiere had been left open.

  Displayed above the mantle was a life-sized portrait of Lois and Silas. Lois was sitting on a glorious Rococo Revival chair with a carved floral crest of gilded wood and curved legs. It was upholstered with a glistening, deep maroon fabric. The lady of the house’s good looks had not only been enhanced by the artist’s able hand, but also by a most stunning shade of chestnut hair coloring, and the assistance, no doubt, of one of the best plastic surgeons money could buy.

  Even the youthful sparkle in Lois’s blue eyes couldn’t mask the approach of middle age. The artist surrendered to time’s hand as well; he reproduced her chin nobly, but doubled it ever so slightly. She presented herself like a queen sitting on that antique masterpiece with a chinchilla wrap covering her shoulders. Silas was on the floor at her feet, holding a stereoscopic viewer while dozens of three-dimensional, storytelling cards were at his knees. He couldn’t have been much older than three and already he looked sad.

  The tick-tick of the longcase clock pendulum drew her attention. It was a nineteenth century, French inspired, towering walnut wonder, and it stood at least eight feet high and two feet wide. Silas loved tinkering with it. Rubbing her arms to warm them, Elaine finally mustered the courage to move on.

  Katerina Waltke’s desk was as neat as always in the office reception room. Katerina was Carl’s personal secretary. A computer, ink-jet printer, and dictating machine were on a table beside her desk. Posted notes on a bulletin board were hanging on the wall behind her chair. Several telephone lines, a typewriter, office files, a calculator, and adding and copy machines were all handy. The low, steady hum of a Bernoulli drive could be heard.

  When Elaine reached the door to Carl’s office, it was open. His usual Corona cigar was smoldering on an intricately carved ash receiver resting on a mahogany, flat-top desk. Blue smoke rising from it stirred the air with a most aromatic blend of the best Cuban tobacco leaves in the world. Only about a third of the cigar was gone. A bottle of cognac was also on the desk, a three-star Napoleon waiting to be opened at his leisure. His favorite photograph of Tasia sitting beside him on a courtyard bench in happier days was in its usual place on a shelf behind his desk, as was a portrait of his son Silas in a silver frame. Lois’s likeness was nowhere to be seen.

  Beyond the desk, the door to the smoking room stood open; it was a handsome, wood-paneled room with hardwood floors and art-glass windows. Carl’s favorite curios littered the walls and every nook and cranny of his private space, and his pub sofa was right in the center of the room. A mahogany humidor was on a small end table.

  Polo pictures had been knocked off the wall behind the desk, and there was a dent in the wainscoting. The glass in the frame was shattered, as if the picture had been hit with great force. Fragments of glass made the brown floor sparkle, especially where the desk chair had been yanked away from where it should have been. One of the black leather armrests was gouged. About twenty-five vinyl badge holders were in a box on a table close to the desk with name cards in them. Two black-soled skid marks stretched a good six inches across the parquet floor, and a spool of red thread had toppled over onto a cream-colored area rug. The spool was wet with something tingeing the rug pink.

  Just as Elaine noticed a purple velvet smoking cap also lying on the floor, she jumped when she heard the fire extinguisher again. Slipping past the desk and into the office hallway, Elaine was careful not to touch anything. People were standing by the bathroom door and gawking at the spectacle inside.

  Cameron was among them, and he stood with his burly arms folded across his chest as he chewed the gum in his mouth. A fire extinguisher was tucked under one of his arms, and it had been used. He was looking in the bathroom as if amused by the less than straight-flush fate the head man had been dealt.

  Lois, Carl’s wife, stood behind Cameron, a lavender, satin robe covering her athletic physique, a body still apropos for executing a perfect plié or arabesque despite its forty-three years. As always, she smelled fruity and floral, probably wearing Jean Patou’s Que Sais-Je? She waved a heavily bejeweled hand in front of her nose to ward off the puffs of gray smoke still billowing out of the room.

  Betty Rhoades, the head housekeeper, stood close by, her hair in soft, pink rollers. Some kind of white moisturizer was on her face, as if the explosion had caught her as she’d been preparing for bed. Drawing a tissue from one of the pockets of her smock, she blew her nose. Far from being upset over Carl’s situation, her “damn allergies” must have been acting up again. All the vapors pouring out of the room certainly didn’t help, tearing her big, gray eyes.

  Vic Kastenmeier burped and his body swayed as if he were thinking about collapsing beside his younger brother. Most days Vic would be stoned out of his mind by eleven in the evening, so Elaine could appreciate the effort he was putting forth to stay erect. Dark stubble covering his chin rose as high as the hair on his head, and his ears protruded away from his face like two fans. His cranium always appeared too big for his body, and his neck was short and thick. As he stood there, his wrinkled brow resembled a road map while sharp, distinctive bags hung over each of his cheeks like gunnysacks.

  “Where’s John?” Vic asked, wiping his mouth with his hand. John Linton was Carl’s bodyguard, and he obviously hadn’t done the man any good at all tonight if what Tasia had said was true.

  A gurgling sound came from the full, Victorian bath, as if someone was struggling to breathe. Elaine moved past the others and stuck her head inside the bathroom to see. She found Carl sprawled out against the side of the claw-footed bathtub. Plaster dust filtering through the air dulled his image as it settled on his clothes, skin, and powdered his hair. The explosion had shattered the frosted glass globe on the ceiling. Now the globe’s red and indigo remains were sprinkled all over like a hopeless jigsaw puzzle. Wall sconces on either side of an elaborate, gilt mirror hadn’t been affected by the blast, and still gave off a warm glow of light amid the piles of destruction.

  Both of Carl’s arms were stretched out with each of his elbows resting against the mahogany surround of the porcelain overlaid tub, giving him an eerie semblance to a man nailed to a cross. It was there, however, that any similarities to deities ended. As he tried to say something, his legs moved as did his lips, and his eyes roll
ed up into his head. His left foot was mangled and the black leather shoe he’d been wearing had been blown off. The maroon and gray Argyle sock on it appeared burnt and bloody. His chest heaving, he fought ferociously for every breath.

  Carl’s onyx and chased silver walking stick was lying in the bathtub behind him, the griffin-head handle flecked with skin and blood. A portion of his scalp had been pulled away from his head and now dangled vicariously over his right brow, graying hair still tacked to it. Mashed almost to the point of being unrecognizable, his face looked as if it had gotten caught in a vise. Also scorched and blood-soaked was a piece of protective plastic from a cleaning store nearby, which had been left on the floor behind the door.

  The rim of a fractured mayonnaise jar was on the floor close beside him, and fragments of glass were scattered everywhere, mixed in with the remains of the globe. Pieces of glass had even been blown into Carl’s face, peppering his left cheek and chin with glistening dabs of blood. Blood streamed from his swelled right eye and from the side of his head. His left forearm and hand were black with burns, and the same side of his purple padded smoking jacket and trousers were smoldering. Despite the smell of soot and ash and one of Patou’s finest, the room also smelled like stale wine.