Monsters Under the Bed (3 page)

He stepped aside, and I walked in.

The hall, like all the rooms I could see, was dim, with dust flecks floating about. The chandeliers and wall lamps, as well as most of the furniture, had been covered with white sheets. Were they moving stuff out already? That was illegal, so perhaps this was for the mourning period. I was annoyed at being too late for the party, so to speak, since it would have helped to see the house as it was when Mo had lived here. Funny, since that was only a few days ago.

“Mr. Chance is in the study. Follow me, please.”

The butler sauntered deeper into the bowels of the grim abode, and I traced his steps.

“Are you Norbert Parkinson?” I asked.

“Indeed, sir. Almost everyone calls me Parkinson.” I could definitely see why the lawyer had dubbed this man stiff as a pole. His British accent came through loud and clear, posh and high-class. I was curious as to his credentials and salary.

“Have you worked for the Chance family long?”

“I began my employ with the family while the parents were still alive. Close to twenty years now.” Was it my imagination or did he sound rueful? Perhaps there was emotional depth to this man after all, underneath the starch.

“What was Mo like?”

Parkinson stopped and glanced at me suspiciously. “With all due respect, sir, I will let Mr. Chance tell you all about the young sir.” His icy tone indicated there was little-to-no esteem in store for me, the intruder into the household. He resumed his walk, and I fell silent.

At a sturdy, closed oaken door, Parkinson waved a hand to suggest which way I was to go while he walked off without so much as a word. I shrugged, indifferent. I would have plenty of time to try my luck with him after I had spoken with Uncle Cecil.

I knocked on the door.

“Come” came the sharp reply.

I opened the door and walked right in. The air smelled of varnish, leather, and dust. The study walls were covered from floor to ceiling with filled-to-the-brim bookshelves. Four cozy, stuffed lounge chairs were placed at precise intervals, and low lights shone from the lamps by the tiny round reading tables. The main desk was situated in front of the high, arched, stained-glass windows that gave the room a churchy feel.

Behind the desk sat a slim man, who was reading a book and taking notes. He had on a white dress shirt, a dark-brown vest, and a light-brown silk tie, and his overall look was prim and proper, almost old-fashioned, an impression further accentuated by the round spectacles he wore. His short dark-blond hair came down in curls, framing his delicate features, and he seemed younger than he was—assuming he was Cecil Chance.

“Mr. Chance?” I asked relatively courteously.

He waved an impatient hand toward the chair in front of the desk while he made an annoyed sound deep in his throat. I sat down quietly, since I could afford to be patient. After a few minutes, he looked up at me, confused to see someone there. Maybe he had forgotten. He readjusted his spectacles and gave me a definite once-over, though there was nothing sexual about it.

“Mr. Garrett, I presume?” His stark tone suggested he wasn’t pleased to see me.

“Yes.”

“I’m Cecil Chance.” He stood up and offered his hand, delicate and small. I rose and shook it. His handshake was feeble and lukewarm. Thankfully, it didn’t last. “You are here to see the house, is that right?”

“Among other things.”

Cecil harrumphed, not happy about my vague answer. “Mr. Niedermayer warned us to expect you. Would you like to see the house now?”

“I have a few questions for you first, Mr. Chance, if I may.”

With a loud sigh, probably intended to convey his displeasure over the situation, Cecil sat back down, and so did I. “Yes?”

I found his abrupt phrasing impolite, but I had formed no personal opinion of him yet, so I wasn’t offended by him. Most people were wary of private investigators, and it meant nothing. “Are you aware of the contents of Mo’s will?” Best to dive right into the deep end.

Cecil rolled his eyes. “I
am
his only living blood relative, so I would
assume
he has left the bulk of the estate to me. But do I
know
? No, I do
not
.” His habit of enunciating some words too clearly irritated my ear but not my sensibilities. Everyone had their quirks.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Chance?” I took out my notebook, tapping the pen on the paper as I waited for him to reply.

“I’m an accountant, if you
must
know.” His tone was a little hoity-toity.

“For the toy company?”

“I have several clients.”

“How long have you lived here in the manor with Mo?”

“Nine years.” He stopped abruptly, so there was a story there, but I held off.

“Are you married? Do you have children?”

“No and no.” He lifted his chin in a snobbish manner but then lowered it just as fast. He frowned and then appeared melancholy. “Just seeing how Mo and Haydn used to live here…. No, I couldn’t in good conscience bring a child into this world.”

“Haydn?”

Cecil looked shocked, and he gasped. “You don’t know about Haydn? Good gracious, you
are
out of your depth here, Mr. Garrett.” I resented the implication but let it slide. “Haydn was Mo’s twin brother.” He frowned with obvious disapproval and straightened up. “I would rather not discuss this any longer. If you have no other questions….” He let his voice trail off as he started to get up. I’d attack this topic at another time.

“What was your precise relationship with Mo?”

Cecil plopped back down and made another loud, long-suffering sigh. “I am—I
was
his paternal uncle. His father was my brother. He is dead now, of course.”

“What happened?”

“A car accident. Mo and Haydn’s mother, Adriana, and father, Norman, died in the crash. How it happened? I believe it was an unfortunate mix of too much wine and bad weather. The two of them had been out on the town, celebrating their anniversary four days late, and they had both consumed wine at dinner. A storm had been brewing all day. As they drove home, the car slid on the wet pavement of Lincoln Boulevard, crashed through the railing, and rammed into a tree. Sad, and so needless. I moved here right away to be with the children in their hour of need.” Cecil shook his head in a theatrical way I found a little weird. But the accident at least explained his nine-year presence in the household.

“How old were the children?”

“Nine. Two years before Mo created his toy company. He was a prodigy, you know. I think he focused on creating toys, aspects of childhood, specifically because of the sudden loss of his parents. I’m no psychologist, of course, but it makes sense.”

It was reasonable, but it was also too early to draw any conclusions. After all, for all I knew at the moment, it could still have been a suicide. “What can you tell me about Mo?”

“
Tell
you?” Cecil sighed, the noise weary. “I think I had better
show
you instead.”

With that remark, he got up, rounded the table, and headed for the door. He didn’t look back to see if I was following. I was.

Without speaking, he led me to a large, open staircase that led to the second floor. Our footsteps were silenced by the red velvet rug covering them, and the ornate carvings on the wooden railings were smooth as silk. Expensive paintings by old masters hung on the walls, and priceless antique vases held compositions of wax flowers. The high-class manor looked and felt ancient.

But that impression carried only as long as it took to reach a hallway at the back of the building. The long, narrow hallway had a distinct air of lack of maintenance. The gray, muted tones of the silk wallpaper showed its age as its edges were crumpled, and there was no carpet covering the wooden floor, which was smudged with scratches and tiny holes. Even the overhead lights flickered uncertainly and coldly. Now the impression was of decrepitude and Gothic horror.

I shivered.

“This is Mo’s playroom.” Cecil pointed at the gray door at the end of the hallway. I suddenly felt claustrophobic, as if the walls were closing in on me. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling at all, and I just knew bad things had happened here. I didn’t know what they were; I only sensed an ominous, heavy weight in the air, preceding and lingering after past, unnamed events.

I turned the knob and pushed the door open until it hit the wall, hinges creaking.

“He was a… a disturbed boy.”

Cecil Chance’s words were the understatement of the century.

That I had no trouble discerning as I stepped over the threshold into the so-called playroom. I would have called it an insane asylum—or the first circle of hell. Or was it the seventh?

Toys scattered across the wooden floor, polished till it gleamed, only accentuated the fact that everything was covered in dust. Wooden shutters were barely open, letting in slivers of light. The air was stale, dust particles floating everywhere. A battered old couch stood at the back of the room, the dark-red fabric chafed and faded in places. Both the left and the right walls were covered with bookshelves, and the shelves were stacked with books. Only a handful were children’s books, while the rest were scientific studies and academic treatises, yellowing on the visible edges of the pages, with smudges of fingerprints and colorful Post-its attached as notations.

All that was pretty mundane and to be expected for a genius child’s playroom, in my opinion. What wasn’t, however, was what covered all available floor, wall, and roof space. Drawn with colored crayons, magic markers, even ballpoint pens, were scribbles of all kinds. I recognized the Greek and Latin alphabets, but the runic, esoteric, and pagan symbols, and what could only be described as numerical codes of some kind, those were beyond me. I’d have to do research on this.

“He was so gifted, you know,” Cecil continued behind me, not crossing the threshold into the room but staying where he was, studying me inspecting the room. “So young and so smart. Always knew the answer to everything put to him. We tried to redecorate here a few times, but Mo threw a fit, so we left this place alone—and him alone in here. Perhaps that was a mistake….”

I read the few English phrases on the surfaces: “U Mr. E Posh,” and “Not Shy,” although his
t’
s looked a lot like
p’
s. “What do those mean?”

Cecil glanced at the wall over my shoulder. “Oh, those. They’re the nicknames they had for each other. I never could understand them, but… kids, you know.”

I looked at him, and he explained, frowning as if he believed I should already know all this. “Mo and Haydn. The twins. They had code names for each other as kids, and those stuck. I remember them laughing like hyenas every time they called each other with them. I never saw what was so funny about them, but few outsiders can understand the bond between twins.”

I took out my iPhone and took pictures and then operated the video function and took some detailed live feed of the entire room to inspect later on my computer. “Where is Haydn now?”

Cecil harrumphed, clearly displeased with me and my investigative abilities. “Why do you think Mo was so unstable and deranged, Mr. Garrett? Haydn… he was lost when they were both thirteen. Five years ago, Haydn disappeared. Not a trace of him since. The police looked for him for ages, expecting a money angle. Kidnappers, you know. Nothing ever came of it, though. But unlike the Lindbergh baby, Haydn was never found.” Cecil shrugged. “He’s probably dead by now. Five years is a long time.”

I nodded. Five years was a damn long time. “So which one was which?”

Cecil scrunched his nose disapprovingly. The line of questioning was apparently not to his liking. “Haydn was Not Shy, Mo was the other.”

“What was Haydn like?”

“Don’t you want to ask about—oh, all right.” Cecil sighed, resigned. “Haydn was the lively one. Mo was always more withdrawn. Mo was the creative genius, while Haydn’s gifts… lay elsewhere. He was a prankster, always the joker, the one with the funny punch line, the one always laughing and making light of things. But, as you see, I cannot mention one without the other. In so many ways, they were like two peas in a pod, yet in other ways they conflicted with each other, like night and day. Without Haydn around… Mo just fell apart. Mentally, I mean. This playroom—
their
playroom—is evidence of that meltdown, case in point.”

I had to admit Cecil had a point. Losing a sibling was bad enough, but to lose the other half of you in the process? That was a nightmare, the emotional ramifications of which I didn’t dare to speculate on without further information. “You think that is why he committed suicide?”

Cecil pursed his lips in frustration, crossing his arms over his chest as if seeing the end of the meeting close at hand. “Well, wouldn’t you? Mo was a child when he lost his parents, and he was still a child when he lost his twin to the unknown. That kind of burden? Who knows what it did to him, to his head? That he managed to keep on going for five years—all alone and the only smart kid in his age group—it’s an achievement not even most adults could accomplish.”

“So you do believe that Mo killed himself?”

Cecil looked utterly confused. “What else could it be?” Then he let out a curious, short chuckle, filled with a modest amount of shock. “Mr. Garrett, surely you don’t think that… that he was…
murdered
? My God, that is just insane. More to the point, Mo was, um, not of sound mind. I find it much more likely that he,
ahem
, ended things himself than someone killing him. No, the whole idea is absurd.”

Murder was complicated, and apparently so was Mo Chance. Sure, he sounded like a troubled kid, but he was also the founder and owner of a multibillion-dollar toy company. When so much money was involved, foul play should never be ruled out too soon, in my honest opinion. So, absurd or not, I wasn’t convinced either way yet.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Cecil shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable and embarrassed. “I must admit to my dying shame that I had only seen him once this past week, and then only briefly as he was having breakfast as I dashed off to work. To be brutally honest, Mr. Garrett, I tended to avoid his company. He could be so, um, so sad and glum. He was my blood, my kin, yes, but I felt only the most tenuous of connections with him.” Then he stared at the floor, his discomfort coming off him in waves. “Especially since….”