Markus was responsible for their deaths, of course.
He dragged the limp form of Harry Nolde out of the entry hall of Arbutus House, past the pool and down the steps to the garden path. Harry’s head smacked against each concrete step with a loud crack, but, to be quite honest, Markus was finished with treating the dead respectfully. He had been more careful with the two other corpses that evening and he was tired and sweaty from it, so even if he gave a hoot about Harry Nolde and how the man wanted his body to be treated, he was finished with all that.
Here, in the garden, this is where he would bury the three of them until he figured out what to do long term. The smooth surface of the arbutus trees bowed and bent over the path he dragged Harry’s body down, the branches curving over him like the ribcages of some huge extinct animal. He plopped the body down next to the bodies of his sister and the investigator.
Let them rot in the flowerbed for a few years until he was ready to sell the place. Yes, that would do. How funny then, that his mother would be the only one of them not to be buried here. She had explicitly requested she be buried in the gardens of Arbutus House, had made him promise it would happen, even, years ago when he was a teenager. She was adamant that her nude body be placed in the dirt here, sans-coffin. Worm food, he thought, and shuddered.
The plan he had slapped together at the last minute - the one that relied on the police believing his sister vanished to Europe and the tenant up and walked away with several thousand in stolen jewelry -could reliably ensure that he was the sole inheritor of Arbutus House. With the funds left in the trust he could maintain the old building until he found a good buyer for it, someone dumb enough to buy a house as old as this, a collector of fine buildings that had money to burn and time to waste.
He retrieved the shovel from the gardener’s shed and set to work digging three shallow graves. His shovel hit something on the first strike into the dirt: not a rock, not a root, but something soft. He peered into the little slice he had made in the soft dirt of the garden. How odd. How very odd. Downtree had said Harry had buried something in the garden, he recalled. This must be it. Evidence of murder? Will-tampering? He leveraged it out of the dirt and bent over to clear the last of the dirt by hand.
Plastic wrap. Duct tape. Yielding, but stiff. He pulled the box cutter out of the inner breast pocket of his sports coat, wiped it on his jeans, and cut into the plastic.
"What the fuck," Markus said, looking at the contents of the package.
A light in the house switched on, projecting a warm yellow glow out into the trees of the garden, and casting sharp shadows of the branches over him.
* * *
“Shasta,” Markus said over the phone.
Markus Aurelius, she wanted to call him, but stopped herself. The man sounded even more serious than usual, if such a thing were possible. The nickname he hated so much would have to wait. “Hello,” she said instead.
“You should come here. To, um, to Arbutus House. Park on the street and come around the side of the garage — don’t let the tenant see you. Downtree found something that I think you should see in person.” The news of the sudden loss of their mother and her Miata had done something to Markus, turning him downright despondent. They had always been close, those two, even when he was a teenager. Shasta would often come home to find them chattering away in the parlor like two old biddies. Meanwhile, Shasta could barely pry a word that wasn't dripping in contempt from her mother's mouth.
She checked her makeup in the mirror by the door and grabbed her keys off the hook on the way out to the Rolls. Maybe the loss of mom was doing something to her as well; she was being downright nasty to her brother lately. The man was grieving, in his own way, just like when he had withdrawn into himself like a turtle when dad died. Oops - there she went again, pulling the poor guy apart at the seems.
She settled in for the forty minute drive to the house. Built by Atticus Darling in 1939 on an escarpment overlooking the basin of a great forest, Arbutus House was conceived of before the rush of mid-century-modern architecture popularized by Frank Lloyd Wright. A relic in its own right, Mother only bought it after realising within her a burning desire to spend as much money as possible now that she was alone. Shasta could only watch as her inheritance dwindled over the years, vanishing into the Italian tiles and Brazilian hardwood beams of the house. Well, perhaps now she and Marcus could come to some agreement on the place, sell it to the right person, split the proceeds.
Or had that ship sailed?
Shasta passed the spot on Thoreaux Road where the guardrail had been torn away by a champagne-colored Miata traveling at 90kph. The police tape blocking it off was loose and fluttering in the wind. If they had managed to recover the vehicle and its pilot no one had told her about it. No one told her anything these days.
She pulled into the long, winding driveway of Arbutus House, cedars and pines flanking her, the forest the color of aubergine at twilight. She pulled over, hiding the car from the windows of the house before a bend in the driveway, and proceeded on foot. She kept to the edge of the pavement where the pines had shed their orange needles and the trees offered a dark backdrop. Arbutus House sat above her on its rocky hill, all swoopy roofs and timber pillars, only a single light on inside.
There was no sign of Markus or his wayward investigator, but hadn’t he said to come around behind the garage? It was an outbuilding at the head of the driveway, built decades after the house had been completed and not quite matching the architectural style. She crept down the side, finding the large shape of her brother on the ground, sleeping soundly in a lightless area under the garage's eave.
She rolled her eyes. This was a new talent. Markus usually couldn't fall asleep unless he was in his own bed. It had lead to several cancelled camping excursions when they were young, something she definitely didn't still resent him for, no, ma'am. She licked her finger and bent down to smear the saliva on his cheek to wake him up.
Shasta froze. The skin of Makus' cheek was ice cold in a way that told her, brother or not, this was a dead body. She recoiled, prepared to scream.
Someone grabbed her from behind around the neck, strong fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her throat, squeezing it, choking off her air.
Not Markus, she thought, staring at the body on the ground. The hands squeezed tighter, her vision blurred and her lungs screamed for oxygen. She pried at the thick fingers, gaining only a centimeter or two of precious space for air to flow to her brain, trying to leverage some more, but her mind was already getting dimmer, like an old bulb casting its final moments of light.
And then she was gone.
* * *
Harry Nolde was elated at the evening news when the local FOX affiliate reported on a champagne-colored Miata that had gone down the Thoreaux Road hill at a high rate of speed, crashed through a road barrier and plunged into the roiling sea below. They could not attempt a recovery until the bad weather had passed and the waves had calmed, so there was no confirmation yet on the deceased, and, likely, wouldn't be any for some time.
But that was no reason he couldn’t celebrate a little.
He drew a warm bath in the master bathroom, pulled out one of the fine cigars Martha had unknowingly purchased for him and tipped a bottle of whiskey into a tumbler with ice. Everyone knew who the Miata belonged to. Just like everyone knew about Arbutus House and its eccentric owner. Just like everyone would know him, soon enough, Harry Nolde, the rapscallion who had risen through the classes to become the owner of one of the finest houses in the North-West.
“It’s all mine,” he said out loud as he settled his grey body into the warm suds of the bath. He puffed his cigar and leaned back into the rose-scented bubbles. With Martha’s death, Arbutus House would pass into Harry’s legal possession thanks to her newly updated will. It had all come together so easily: befriend an old rich widow, move in with her, publicly establish that you are good friends (or possibly lovers), and offer your legal services as a notary in regards to the final draft of that oh so lovely paper. All within the knick of time, it would seem.
“Excellent,” he whispered, smoke escaping his mouth.
Martha’s toothless and wild offspring would no doubt come knocking tomorrow, try to settle things with him, perhaps even offer him a straight sum of cash to relinquish any legal ties to the property. Ha! No dollar amount could get him to ever leave this place now that he had it, especially to the art-blind siblings who’s only intention was to sell it for sone quick liquidity. No, Harry was the correct caretaker for such a magnificent palace, he understood its construction and form, its finishes and creator. From the pitched roofs with generous overhangs, the courtyard styled after a Morrocan kazbah, the water-repellent ironwood floors and the pillars of carved timber endemic to architecture of the Pacific North-West… He caught his reflection in the mirror, gave himself a mile-wide smile. And let's not forget the orchards, old boy, the yard of refined gardens, the acres of forest beyond that. He was the only one that could appreciate it all.
So, why then, was something prickling at the edges of his conscience, some small detail he had forgotten?
A loud meow caught Harry's attention. He fumbled his cigar and dropped it into the tub. An orange tabby cat stood in the doorway, staring him down as if displeased with his presence in a bathtub not rightly his own. It settled onto its rump and began cleaning its paw. It looked so much like — but no, that couldn’t be. How had this thing gotten in?
“Ah yes,” he said, feeling around for his cigar in the bathwater. “The cat doors.” The front and back exterior doors had been installed with flaps for Martha’s wretched orange tabby cat to come and go as it pleased, a horrific modification to the original design that he would need to see about correcting. This one must have come in the same way. Perhaps it was familiar with poor Clementine. Perhaps they had been friends.
"Well," he said to the cat, retrieving the soaked cigar from near his crotch and chucking it into the wastepaper basket, "it wasn't my fault, see? She's may be dead but it wasn't my intention to kill her.” A horrible accident, nothing more — Harry Nolde was no murderer.
The cat’s only response was to toss her head and strut away.
He would have a good sleep tonight, but not in the master bedroom — the bed still had that old lady stank to it. The pool house was becoming rather cramped for him these days and he had been longingly thinking of moving into a spare bedroom in the house. In the morning he could air the house out and hire some cleaners, peroxide the shit out of every surface, and in due time it would fill with his own stench. A cleaner stench, the stench of a man who knew his own worth and had finally made it.
From across the building, the entry alarm blared.
Harry sat up in the tub, muscles tensed, listening. When nothing more happened he clambered out, draping himself in a towel, and went to investigate. "What now," he muttered as he stocked up to the front door and its alarm keypad. It was closed but he rattled the knob to make sure it was good and locked. Okay, no one had broken in, not by this entrance anyway. He reset the alarm (the code entrusted to him by Martha, God rest her soul) while dripping onto the ironwood flooring.
He drifted around in the dark, ensuring every door and window was locked, every curtain was drawn before making his way to the dining room. Good Lord, that whiskey had gone straight to his head; the furniture in the dark was shifting, changing with each step. Each hand-crafted, bespoke chair, bench or table looked like a person on first glance, morphing back into its proper shape on the second. He went to the large central window, pulled the blinds back just enough and peered into the night. That was the goddamn problem with this place; he couldn't see a damn thing outside thanks to the huge eaves of the house. They shadowed everything and the exterior walls weren't wired so they didn't have any security lights. Harry was suddenly very aware of how alone he was, this far out of town in such a large property, by himself now that the previous owner was jammed in a crumpled car beneath twenty feet of churning Pacific.
The front door creaked open. He ducked beneath the ten-seater dining table carved from a single giant redwood plank and waited. Two loud thunks followed as the stranger took their shoes off at the entry foyer. Whoever it was, they had a healthy respect for the century-old hardwood flooring. Soft footsteps travelled past his hiding spot and down the hall, into the master bedroom. The bedsprings squeaked as the stranger laid down, and a sigh escaped their lips.
A feminine sigh.
The uninvited guest made no more noises. He gave it ten minutes, his arms and legs cramping from where he crouched beneath the table, before ever so carefully getting out from under it and creeping toward the master bedroom. The door was open only a crack, and he dared pushed it open another inch, getting a whiff of mildew, wet clothing and mud. He clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a scream.
The small frame of a 90 year old woman lay on the bed.
Harry backed away from the door, turned and fled to the main entry, where he had stood minutes before, resetting the alarm. He had one blissful look at a pleasent, summer's night before his legs shot out from under him and he went, as he would put it, ass-over-teakettle, the back of his head slamming into those precious ironwood floors.
* * *
When Markus pulled himself into the spacious passenger seat of Investigator Downtree’s lifted pickup truck he wished the man had chosen to do his stakeout in something that was a little less conspicuous. He had the unfortunate circumstances of being unable to meet Markus at his house because it was within 500 yards of an elementary school.
“Caught ‘im,” Downtree muttered in his gruff, sherriffy voice. “Last night in the orchard. Buried something.”
Markus leaned in to hear him. “I’m sorry?”
“Sit back,” Downtree ordered while scanning the street from behind tinted sports sunglasses. “We can’t look like we’re conspiring here.”
Wasn’t that what they were doing though? Conspiring? Markus settled into his seat anyway. “Right, okay. Just two guys hanging out in a parked truck. Tell me more.”
Downtree scratched at his silver bob of hair, shaking loose some dandruff. That was the one thing the rotund, cop-turned-felon-turned-investigator had going for him: a truly excellent head of thick hair that cascaded in waves over over his huge shoulders and framed his thick neck. “First of all, I’m sorry about your mother. I understand it was abrupt.”
‘Abrupt’ was putting it lightly. “It’s fine,” Markus said. It wasn’t, but the last thing he wanted was sympathy from a guy like Downtree. “Tell me.”
“I have been following the TOI for several days now, as per our contract. At the same time I’ve been performing a background check.” He passed a sealed manilla envelope over to Markus. “We need to maintain OPSEC for now, so don’t mention this to anyone. I’ll need payment for my next leg of investigation; 10 G’s, up front.”
‘TOI’, ‘OPSEC’ — these were acronyms Markus was unfamiliar with but that Downtree insisted on using, though the TOI was Harry Nolde, that much was obvious. Markus slid the papers out of the envelope, scanning the information Downtree had gathered. “Any word on my mother?” Markus asked.
"Murdered," he said flatly.
Markus swallowed.
"Her Miata had shown signs of tampering before it went in the drink.”
Markus’ posture stiffened involuntarily.
“Death by accident: everyone stays in the will. Fuckin’ nefarious."
Markus licked his lips. “And he did it, this Harry guy?”
Downtree shook his head. "Can't rightly say. Could've. Did your mother have any enemies?"
"Um, well, uh." He took a moment to breathe, the growing panic inside him coming very close to overpowering the rational part of his brain, forcing him to do something irrational. He loosened his tie. "My sister. The two of them never got along well."
"Sorry to hear that. I have no evidence that suggests anyone in the family is involved with her death, not at this time." He planted a meaty finger onto the page in Markus' hand. “Section 8, take a look. He’s done this before, by my research. Track record of taking advantage of little old ladies. Free rent, free shit, free cars. Writes himself into their wills. Disinfo campaign on the internet and in the locals. The wealthier and frailer the widow, the better.”
“But no murders?”
Downtree squinted at him as if he had just said something very stupid. “Nothing visible. Look, if this is making you uncomfortable...”
“I’m fine, go on.”
“The guy’s a mastermind, ya know? He understands exactly what to say and when to say it. Knows how to get what he wants. I highly recommend not coming after him if he wrote himself into your mother’s will. Not legally, anyway. But I, uh, know a guy, if you’re interested.”
Markus swallowed. His hands and throat were slick. He knew what he had to do, knew that he would need to close the loop with Downtree if he was to get through this unscathed. He couldn't let any of this get back to Shasta — she could be complicit. His head hurt and he couldn’t think properly, but it seemed true enough.
Markus slipped a hand into the inner breast pocket of his coat. His hands were slick with sweat. Oh God, how his hands were sweating.
* * *
“You know that new tenant mom has?” Markus asked.
Shasta set her glass of wine on the table next to the legal pad where she had been detailing all the features of Arbutus House that would go into the real estate listing, giving her brother 'The Look'.
He squirmed appropriately under her gaze. “Yeah,” she said.
Markus was a balding, overweight playwright. He had done little to hide from their mother his soirees with other males when they were teenagers, and cared even less now in his middle-age. Shasta was bothered by this impudent muddying of their family name; the Risenwelds were perceived by the wider community to be good, normal stock and she’d prefer it kept that way. Her brother's history of patronizing underground 'jazz' clubs jeopardized a lot of what her father had built.
He stumbled through his next words: “I just thought, you know, maybe we should look into him. What do you think about that?”
She sucked a morsel of dinner out from between her teeth as she thought about how to respond. A sprig of thyme or a piece of gristle or something had wedged itself pretty far in there and she was having a devil of a time getting it out. She did not answer the question. This was a game they had perfected over their years together; trying to get the other to talk first, to reveal more info to the other. Markus wanted her to agree with him, to let him know she was on board so he could disclose that he had already hired someone to do the dirty work.
Shasta was very good at playing this game.
“Mother is sturdy,” he went on. “But she is getting on in years.” 90. Their mother had just turned 90. Markus avoided saying her exact age out loud, preferring to pussyfoot around the issue and pretend it was 25 years ago when Lady Martha (what Shasta called their mother) was still going on safari and visiting Europe and walking up and down the uneven stone steps of Amalfi. Those days were long gone, though, and her neighbor, Florence, had gifted her a cat to keep her company. It was a bright little tabby from a litter, twin to the one she had kept. Maybe they'd all get lucky and it would trip and kill her one day.
Shasta kicked a leg over the other and wiggled her hands together on top her knee, flashing Markus a little eyebrow lift.
Markus' expression soured. “I know what you’re thinking, and I am not just trying to protect our inheritance. I just want to make sure he isn’t taking advantage of her, you know? She said she doesn’t make him pay rent, that she likes the boy, and that he drives her into town sometimes. It just sounds like a weird situation.”
“You’re right, Markus," Shasta said. "I do think a tenant complicates the matter of selling the house as quickly as possible when mother croaks.” For Goddsake, he had always been such a mother’s boy, the two of them spending so much time together since his teenage years they were like two catty best friends every time they got together. It had become gross after father died, as if she were looking for his replacement in Markus.
Shame, then, that Markus didn’t fill a quarter of the shadow left by their father.
He leaned back against the kitchen counter, lifting his feet briefly off the floor while he thought. “Arbutus House,” he said, “is not my concern right now. I’ve hired a private eye.”
She barked out a laugh. “A private eye? Really, Markus? This isn’t a gumshoe detective novel from the 50s.”
“Whatever you call it then — a contracted investigator! Someone to find out a little more info about this Harry Nolde guy. I just don’t understand why she would be so taken with this man and allow him to leach off of her like that.”
“Do you think he’s pleasuring her, Markus? Going down on our bitter old mom?”
Markus wrinkled his face up. “Absolutely disgusting, Shaz.”
She shrugged with one shoulder. “I’m merely trying to understand your line of thinking.”
“My hired guy,” Markus said, giving each word the concentration it deserved, “Investigator Downtree, is a retired police captain. Well, I guess ‘retired’ is the wrong word for it. He was kicked out for committing a felony and couldn’t find work on another police force.”
“Must’ve been some crime.” She sipped her merlot.
“He’s a pederast.”
She spit her merlot back into the wineglass. “Fucks’ sake, Markus.”
“He comes highly recommended. Always gets the job done, no matter what, they say. And cheap, too."
“Went to his office, did you? Bad part of town? A half-door with frosted glass? Big letters on it saying ‘INVESTIGATOR’?” She gasped. “Did you wear a slinky red dress with a fox fur scarf?”
Markus pressed his lips together so tightly they drained of color. “No. He doesn’t have an office. Everything’s online these days.” He ran a hand over the counter, mumbled something that very much sounded like, “No wonder your kids don’t talk to you anymore.” She pretended not to hear it.
“Well,” Shasta said. “I for one am eager to hear what this freak uncovers about our wayward tenant. Please do share when you get his report back.”
“I suppose I have to,” he said. “If we are to split the proceeds of our wonderful Arbutus House squarely down the middle.” He eyed her from across the room, assessing her.
“Of course, Markus. I would never dream of anything but.”
“I know you attempted to go to our addled mother and have me removed from that part of the will.”
Shasta halted the trip the wineglass was taking to her lips. How in the fuck had he sorted that out? "You and mother still talk, I see."
"We do." He pulled his keys out and made for the exit. “Don’t frown, Shaz. It’ll only deepen your wrinkles.”
* * *
Harry wiped his hands on his banana-colored beach shorts, leaving streaks of rich, loamy mud on them. He pushed the plastic-wrapped, duct-taped package into the shallow hole he had dug in the garden and pushed moist dirt over top of it. Raindrops smacked the canopy above him while he worked, big fat drops of oily water wetting his hair and beard, thickening the dirt and turning it to mud. The hole filled in, he slapped the dirt and grabbed a handful of dried leaves to scatter over the burial. Harry took only a second to admire his handiwork, then stood, knees popping, and said, “I’m sorry, Clementine. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, but she can never find out what I’ve done to you.” He scurried off down the narrow garden path. He needed to get out of this wet garden and into some dry clothes.
To call the two acres of well-manicured property surrounding Arbutus House with twisting flagstone paths shaded by oak, elm and arbutus trees a ‘garden’ was nothing short of a misnomer. It was an exquisite example of Japanese-inspired landscaping encircling a pre-mid-century-modern timber-frame house, and it was a large part of the reason Harry needed this place. He went up the wooden steps to the darkly-stained wrap-around deck, followed it around to the pool house suite, and carefully slid open the glass door in a way that wouldn’t make it squeak. With the door shut behind him, he reached up to pull the curtains closed with a sheeeef sound as their metal rings scraped the rod — a sound that made him grit his teeth and freeze in place.
And wait.
And listen.
A clunk on the other side of the wall — the wall he shared with the main building — made his blood run cold.
Oh no.
Oh, good Lord, no.
She was awake.
Had she seen him digging in her garden? Did she hear his bare feet slap the wet wood of the deck outside?
The patio door creaked as it was opened, her slippers scraping the deck as she shuffled toward the pool house.
He looked down at himself, his muddy shoes and his soaked clothing. He stripped down to his underwear and threw on the nearest pieces of clothing he had: a pair of dark grey dress slacks and a white buttoned down shirt. He mussed his hair up to look like he had been sleeping just as the first of her light knocks tapped the glass of his door.
He drew the curtains back. Martha Risenweld stood on the other side, all 80lbs of her, peering in at him with the gaunt face of a demon out of some kind of horror movie. She was dressed in her very fine silk nightgown, hair bundled up under a knit sleeping cap.
Harry slid the door open, letting out a practiced yawn. “Hello, Martha.”
“Oh, you’re home,” she said. “I was just checking in, trying to get a glimpse of you.”
“Oh, um, it’s terribly early in the day isn’t it?” he said.
She checked her watch, a delicate, thin metal thing she wore with the watch face on the inside of her wrist. “I suppose it is for the young. This is the usual time I get up though.”
Harry took a deep breath. “Yes. I was just up for a glass of water. I’ll be going back to bed now.”
“You look like you’re going somewhere.”
Harry checked his clothing. Right, the dress clothes. “These are the clothes I slept in last night. You know how it is, don’t you, Martha? Old swing-dancer you were back in the day!” She smiled, did a little 90-year-old woman dance. “Still got it!” he said.
She smacked him. “I heard something outside, thought maybe it was Clementine. Thought I’d come over and see if she had shown up.”
“Huh? No, afraid I haven’t seen her. Sure she’ll turn up soon though, the silly thing.”
“Hmm,” she said, folding her bony arms.
“Martha, my dear,” Harry said, gesturing toward the champagne Miata sitting in the driveway. “Are you still going to the art roadshow today? I hear they have an authentic Rasmussen up for auction.”
A look of delight relaxed her face into the features of someone who may have been a mere 75. “Yes,” she said, drawing the word out as she grinned. “No need for one of your rides, I have Florence coming to pick me up this time. She’ll be taking my car to the garage while I’m out so don’t be surprised if you see it gone from the driveway.”
“Oh?” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “Feeling brave? Taking the bus home are we?”
She pressed her lips into a thin line of disgust. “I’d sooner walk home, young man.”
“Well, we must maintain our health and beauty, mustn’t we? Then again, that has always been easy for you, Martha.”
She flushed at his words. “You absolute rapscallion, Harry! You always know exactly what to say to a gal.”
He did, didn't he? Harry Nolde had always prided himself on it.