Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe by Tedd Hawks (the reading list book .TXT) 📕

in the doorway to the dining room, her long, brown hair shimmeringin the morning light. Her eyes sparked, two orbs of hazel fire; her face,somehow both angular and soft, smiled, not at him, but at something distant,just out of sight.

            “Grandmotherputting on her grief show for you all?” Her voice rang out like a bell. “Shedoes this every so often to make sure we know she’s grieving.”

            Corinthianaresponded with an emphatic “AWRK!”

            “Um…”Crockett couldn’t avert his gaze from the young woman as she came closer.“Hello,” he said softly. “Hello. Hello.”

            “Goodmorning and good morning,” she said. Her eyes scanned Crockett’s mud-stainedsuit, a flash of amusement expressing itself in the slight upturn of her mouth.

            Crockettwas not handsome, not in the general, accepted sense of the word. Everythingabout him was just slightly off-center, yet the features of his face connectedtogether in such a manner as to make them interesting, if not pleasant, despitethe fact that on anyone else they would have been completely hideous. His largenose stood out against his long, thin face, drawing attention away from histiny, bowlike mouth. A lack of testosterone rendered it impossible for him togrow anything like a beard or mustache, but his eyebrows were thick, curious,like caterpillars in a constant state of motion upon his brow. His eyes wereperhaps the most distinguishing feature, one blue, one green.

            Brontë,the young woman in question, could not quite decide what to think of Crockettas he stood, awkwardly, awaiting her approach.

            “Hasanyone caught you up on the family’s current state?” she asked.

            “Youmay have to be more specific about the term state,” Petrarch saidwarmly.

            “Brontë,pleeease,” Corinthiana bellowed, “with your sister praaacticing her haaalf-baaakedAaaustro-Hungaaariaaan draaama and your mother’s uneeemotional reeeaction toooyour graaandfaaather’s death, the laaast thing weee neeed is yooou stirring upMr. Bluster and his impoooverished friend.”

            “I’msorry, Mrs. Hawsfeffer,” Crockett said, “but I’d appreciate if we could excludethe pejorative statements about my financial status moving forward.”

            “Ohdeeear!” Corinthiana put her hand to her mouth, the jewels on her wristtinkling merrily. “I thought I waaas uuusing theee correct nomenclaaature. Doooyooou preeefer finaaancially copitulaaated?”

            “Ibelieve the term, Grandmummy, is müllesser,the German. It is more accepted.” This was uttered by another household member,a waifish, spritely girl, who had entered unseen. Her wide unblinking eyesdanced between Petrarch and Crockett.

            “Awrk!”Corinthiana uttered softly. “Thaaat does sound better.”

            “Andif it sounds better, inevitably it is better. That’s why people, at large,prefer the sound of cows over the laughter of spiders,” the girl saidresolutely.

            Petrarchblinked twice. His mouth moved to speak but then settled, confounded and open,looking at the young girl.

             Brontë swiftly took the arms of Crockett andPetrarch and led them out of the room. “I’ll catch them up, Grandmother. Idon’t want you to worry about it.”

            “I'llgooo check on deeear Beeeatrice then with your mother. Herring dooo growaaagitaaated when guests aaare present.”

            Brontësighed and led Petrarch and Crockett into a formal sitting room adjoining thefoyer.

            Theroom itself was cozy, a large pink couch serving as the centerpiece, turned soit faced a marble fireplace. Crockett let out an accidental laugh as he gazed upona large portrait of the beloved Beatrice hanging over the mantle. It was apainting of the fish’s face. No emotion or anthropomorphic features had beengiven to the aquatic creature, so that it was just a large fish head with emptyeyes staring upward. Had the room been less colorful, it may have created anominous feeling but, combined with the hues of pink and blue, the effect wassimply bizarre and humorous.

As Crockett continuedhis inspection, he also noted that everything had a patina of dust over it; itall seemed aged and forgotten, despite the opulent fixtures scatteredthroughout—silver candelabras, a soaring crystal chandelier, and a colorful,enormous vase full of fresh flowers. Another incongruous item was a largeelephant gun hanging over the fireplace—the violence of the weapon at odds withthe floral, rose-colored hues which surrounded them.

            Theoddest piece, however, was a large, opulent cage placed in the corner of theroom. Instead of bars, strings of jewels skirted the outside, while insidethere were thick, lush satin pillows and a long, silk bedsheet.

            “Whatis that?” Crockett asked pointing to the magnificent monstrosity.

            Brontëthrew a cursory glance to the corner and then shrugged her shoulders.“Beatrice’s bed,” she said. “Grandmother had a shaman come into the house whosuggested Beatrice’s dyspepsia was caused by sleeping next to Grandmother andher assortment of perfumes and powders.”

            “Fishget dyspepsia?” Crockett scratched his head, looking into the coal-like eyes ofBeatrice’s portrait.

             “Honestly,” Brontë said, “when it comes toBeatrice, I don’t ask too many questions. They tend to confuse rather thanclarify.”

Crockett turned fromthe painting and looked at Brontë with warmth. “In most families that’sprobably generally true of questions.”

            Asmile flashed on the young woman’s face; her eyes shone with a gentleintelligence. “Anyway, I’m sorry that the family is so out of sorts. Grandfather’sdeath has exacerbated all of our family foibles—Grandmother is more opulent andoverbearing, Kordelia more idiotic, and Mother and Father as clueless as ever.”She paused and turned away from Crockett. “There is always an undercurrent ofdiscontent in this house, whether it’s my mother fighting with her sister, Grandfatherfighting with Father, or Martha and Dexter skulking in the shadows—there isn’tpeace here usually, but now it’s worse than it has been in years.”

            Crockettcouldn’t find words to respond. Everything about the young woman in front ofhim had him transfixed, the most shocking of which was her choice of trousersinstead of a dress. But, unlike the gun, it was not incongruous with herdemeanor—if anything, it seemed that she wore it all perfectly, or as if theclothes wore her, the effect was so complimentary.

            “Brontë,I very much appreciate you taking us out of the chaos,” Petrarch said jovially.“Can you tell us a bit about the funeral? Has it commenced?”

            “I’mafraid not. Grandmother wants everyone here, and Robert Edward and Aunt May haveyet to arrive.”

            “RobertEdward?”

            “RobertEdward Harrington. He is our grandfather’s second cousin, only recently comefrom the European continent.”

            “Yourfather never mentioned him to me.”

            “He’sfrom abroad and turned up at the house a few days before grandfather died. Hetold