Murder. Theatre. Solitaire.

By Ty Unglebower

When overworked theatre director Milton Crouse attempts a week long November retreat in Vermont, not only does he end up snowed in by an overnight blizzard, but one of his fellow guests turns up dead. Now Milton will use the skills and knowledge he's gained from a lifetime in the theatre to try and discover, before the police dig their way up the mountain, who the killer is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ty Unglebower
• Release date: Nov 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393520122

Ty Unglebower

Ty is a freelance writer, actor, and occasional poet who, according to his official tagline, generally seeks to "shift the everyday a few inches."

Book preview

ONE

HOW DID HE MANAGE NOT to bring a deck of cards on this trip? He’d packed just about everything else for the seven hour bus ride.

Actually his sister, who didn’t seem to understand he was 42 years old now, packed most of his bags for him. The trip was her idea, and he’d reluctantly agreed to it, to keep her quiet as much as any thing else.

He’d been directing theatre productions back home with little break for two years straight. So as per his sister’s demands, any and all theatre-related material was contraband for the week.

It’ll all be here when you get back, she said to him right before he'd left home that morning. Even the best of lovers need time away from each other.

As the bus rumbled its way toward northern Vermont for this mini-sabbatical, Milton Crouse admitted his sister was right this time. He needed time away from arguing with actors and set designers, pleading with producers, putting out fires, budgeting resources, analyzing story structures, producing visions.

Theatre had been his life for most of it, and he knew it would remain so. He’d never be far from it for long. Even his other passion, cards, came to him from the theatre. As a child he’d grown restless between scenes, and to keep him occupied an old lady in the cast taught him solitaire. Klondike to be exact. He took to the game right away, and soon was teaching himself dozens of other versions of the game. Ever since, he rarely went anywhere without a pack of cards to play with.

Until today.

When the bus at last reached its terminus, Milton stepped out into a chilly early November afternoon. He didn’t think anybody had any business in Vermont during the winter, and would have gladly put off this trip until warmer months. But his sister was convinced he’d get himself involved in yet another production before then. She was probably right on that count as well.

There was a gas station here, where a private shuttle would pick him up and take him to his destination. Elwood Mansion, it was called, and it was a semi-secluded mountain retreat.

Milton checked his watch, and went into the gas station. Gas stations sold cards, didn’t they? He’d found many decks in his collection in gas stations over the years, and sure enough, hanging from a display, and covered in dust were several identical packs. Milton grabbed one without looking at it, paid and shoved it in his pocket on his way to a bench just outside the establishment.

He felt better now that he had cards, cheap though they may be. The flipping sound of the shuffle, the feel of the cards on his fingers, the designs, sorting and swapping numbers and suits, and the satisfaction of placing a card down on a table with precision all helped him relax and clear his head. Many a theatrical conundrum had been solved in the middle of a game of solitaire. He’d often attributed his much lauded vision of The Tempest to an all night marathon of Easthaven.

After ten minutes, the bite in the early November air numbed the end of his nose. He checked his watch just as a dark green mini-van with a white stenciled mansion and tower on the side pulled up.

Milton Crouse, sir? asked the driver. He was an average sized college-aged young man with a hooked nose that seemed to be a decade or so older than the rest of him. His head moved side to side as though to music, though none played.

Yes, Milton said. You're right on time. Assuming you're the shuttle to Elwood, of course.

I am, said the young man. I'm Daniel. Well Danny, usually. But Daniel too, sir. You can get in now, sir, if you'll just sign this small paper, saying that I did pick you up.

Danny handed over a small clipboard and an ink pen. Milton scanned the two sentence document, signed and handed everything back to Danny.

Excellent sir, he said. Thank you. I'll put your luggage in the back.

Danny got out of the van and approached Milton, who handed him his luggage. Danny pulled the handle on the large automatic sliding passenger door. Nothing happened. He paused, and pulled on the handle again.

It does this sometimes, sir, Danny said, his voice softer than before. I do apologize. Can be quite a headache at times. I hope you're not too inconvenienced.

Not at all, Milton said. I'm happy to just use the front door.

Mechanism just needs to catch up, sir, Danny said. Shouldn't be more than a moment.

Milton could hear the whir of the door's mechanism wheeze when Danny pulled the handle again. The whirring stopped. The door remained closed. Danny started the process again, and the noise started up again. This time, Danny ran the ink pen Milton had used up and down over the handle of the door as he waited. He moved it so quickly, Milton thought it might cut the handle in half.

Come on now, he heard Danny mumble to himself. The door obliged this time; it slid open on its track. About time, right sir? Danny turned and smiled. The smile was painted on, Milton could tell the guy was in fact agitated by the delay.

Milton stepped into the van. The seats were far more comfortable than the bus seat after seven hours. He sighed, and closed his eyes. He heard Danny muttering something to himself as he placed the luggage in the back.

He felt the urge to tell the young man to project his voice. Though Milton was taking a vacation from directing theatre, theatre had not yet taken a vacation from him. Even when not in the theatre, Milton often viewed things through the lens of the stage. He’d never been certain if this were good or bad. It just was.

Luggage all set, sir, Danny said. Are you ready to leave?

Yes, I'm ready, thank you. Go ahead.

The driver's door slammed shut. Off we go then.

How far is the drive? he asked Danny.

Approximately fifteen minutes this time of day, sir. Danny turned onto the local interstate. The last five minutes of that is the private drive up to the mansion, sir.

Milton nodded. He withdrew the new deck of cards from his pocket. He wrestled with the cellophane over the box, (which he deposited in his pocket once removed) and opened the deck. He flipped through the cards in his hand. A little stiffer than he preferred, but not bad.  Slick with newness. He preferred to play with cards that had been aged a bit. Picture of a maple tree in autumn and the word Vermont in navy blue script across the bottom of each card. Not quite kitsch, but a tad silly. Cards were cards, however. He counted them.

Only once in his life had he actually found a card missing in a brand new deck, but he went through the ritual anyway each time he opened a new deck..

Milton found all 52 cards plus the obnoxious advertisement card and jokers. He put them all back in the box, and the box back in his coat pocket.

He glanced up at Danny, who again mouthed something to himself. He also blinked more than most people. He was a rather nervous young man. Or eccentric.

Other than this slight mumbling, the commute proceeded in silence.

Just as Danny said, about ten minutes later the van pulled off of the main road and onto a smaller rural road. Brittle leaves, still sporting bright colors, blew in every direction, kicked up by the movement of the van. Danny slowed the vehicle and made a sharp right into an entrance Milton had not even noticed.

As they made the turn, a stone sign reading, Elwood Mansion Retreat and Relaxation Center, came into view. The van eased along the contours of the private drive, as it climbed the mountainette.

How many guests can the mansion hold? he asked Danny.

Thirty, sir, when we're fully booked.

Milton felt nauseous. And are you fully booked this week?

Oh, no, not at all, sir. This is our condensed season. Only seven guests this month. Everyone goes to the skiing lodges in the winter. We don’t usually even open the eastern wing this time of year.

Milton wasn't sure if spending so much time with the same few people would prove better or worse than being surrounded by dozens of others.

He leaned back in his seat, and watched the dark, dormant trees reaching into the dull gray sky as they passed. It felt like they were approaching a forgotten asylum as opposed to a retreat. This view inspired a set-design concept in his head. Milton reached for his director's notebook, planning to sketch it out, but remembered his sister had confiscated it.

Danny said nothing for the rest of the short trip up the small mountain In fact, unlike most taxi or shuttle drivers, Danny spoke only when spoken to, or to convey pertinent information. Milton found this refreshing.

The stone tower came into view first. It was constructed to look like an old castle turret. About 50 feet high. He could just make out what must be the observation deck as the van turned a bit, and revealed the front of another stone structure, two stories high, with flood lights attached to the front of it. Elwood Mansion. (Mansion Milton thought, was being generous.)

We're here, sir. I'll get your luggage again, if you please.

The door to the van slid open again. Milton stepped out, surveying the building. He called over his shoulder to Danny. Is this where I'll be staying?

Yes, sir. Are you ready to go in, sir?

Milton motioned toward the front door, and Danny, luggage in hand, reached to open it. He gestured Milton to go in first. Milton thanked him, and stepped into a charming foyer. In fact, the entire inside of Elwood impressed him more than the outside.

To his left, a door to what appeared to be a parlor or sitting room. He heard but did not see a fire crackling in there. In front of him, a wooden staircase, curving slightly toward the second floor. In front of him, a hallway, with some large windows at the end, a corner leading down another unseen hallway. And to his right, a woman standing in another doorway.

Mr. Crouse, good afternoon to you sir, said the woman. I'm Miss Rutherford, your hostess. Welcome to Elwood Mansion.

Milton took her hand. She shook his with a vigor that didn't match its wrinkled skin. Wrinkles also formed on Rutherford's face as she produced a broad smile. It wasn’t without sincerity, but it was clearly a practiced expression.

She smelled of Red Door perfume, a fragrance his grandmother utilized on a regular basis. But Rutherford was hardly old enough to be his grandmother.

Thank you, Milton told her. Impressive facility.

I’m glad you think so, Rutherford said. I imagine you're quite ready to see your room and rest after such a long bus ride. If you'll just sign in with me, Daniel will take your things up to your room.

Thank you, Milton said. He wanted nothing more than to see his bed.

Rutherford nodded at Danny. The bags please, Daniel. Feeling better?

Milton squinted at Danny. Danny replied, Yes, ma’am, quite a bit, thank you.

Under the weather? Milton asked.

It's just been quite a long day, hasn't it? Rutherford said.

Yes, it has, Danny said. Can I get you anything else, sir?

Milton reached into his pocket for his wallet, and pulled it out. Not that I can think of just now, thank you. Milton retrieved a ten dollar bill. Danny, this is for you.

Thank you, sir, but I mustn't accept a gratuity.

Milton looked over to Rutherford. We very much appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Crouse. But at Elwood we eschew tipping. We want our staff to serve because they want to be here, and earn a salary, not because of extras. Isn't that right, Daniel?

It is, ma’am.

Good. But, Rutherford said, perhaps given the circumstances, and because I'm right here, you could accept this one tip, just today. If nobody else hears of it.

Danny nodded, and thanked Rutherford. Milton handed the bill.

Now, Mr. Crouse’s bags please, Danny, Rutherford said.

Danny thanked her and Milton, and made his way up the stairs with Milton’s luggage, all in only one arm.

Now if you'll just step into the office, Mr. Crouse, Rutherford said, I'll sign you in.

Rutherford gestured toward the door behind her with the grace of a ballet dancer. Milton walked through it, past a small booth of some kind. Several boxes of first aid, bandages, and a small locked glass cabinet with a few vials of medicine sat just beyond the glass front.

Next they stepped into a cozy but messy office, piled high with papers and folders. It was not at all how he pictured the office of a prim and organized hostess. She seemed to acknowledge this. You'll have to forgive the mess. I'm in the middle of reorganizing files and correspondence of all kinds from over the last year. Daniel helps when he can, but as wonderful as he is, he isn't what you would call clerical.

Have you considered a computer? Milton asked. It can make all of this go away. He gestured at the stacks of paper.

I confess I’ve resisted the idea, Rutherford said. For years. I need to catch up, though. Now that this world wide web is becoming so popular recently. Even President Clinton loves the web doesn’t he? But there are plenty of changes coming to Elwood in the near future, and one of them, I'm afraid is my extremely tardy conversion to the computer world. Progress marches on, does it not?

That's what they tell me, Milton said, thinking of his own paper-strewn desk back home. Being in the theater, though, I sometimes wonder if anything ever changes.

Fascinating, Rutherford said. I look forward to hearing more about that at tea time this evening. Now if you would sign here, Mr. Crouse.

Milton leaned toward the guest book, and applied his signature along with other appropriate information. Rutherford thanked him and put the book away. He assumed there was some order into which she placed it.

Coming around the front of her desk, Rutherford led Milton back out past the medical booth. This time his curiosity got the better of him.

If you don't mind me asking, Miss Rutherford, what sort of medicines are those? He pointed through the glass window toward the locked cabinet. Rutherford stopped and rotated as though she stood on a Lazy Susan-the practiced flourish of a hostess.

Anti-venom, she said with a slight grimace on her face.

For what? asked Milton, not at all pleased with the prospects.

Timber rattlesnake, she said, as though uttering a reverent prayer.

Rattlesnake? In Vermont?

Rutherford grinned. Don't feel embarrassed, Mr. Crouse. Many are surprised to learn of it. It's the only rattlesnake in the Northeast, and incidentally, the only poisonous snake of any kind indigenous to Vermont. Which is why we have... She gestured toward the cupboard.

I see, Milton said.

Oh, but you mustn't worry about that during your stay, Mr. Crouse, Rutherford said. The creature is hibernating this time of year, and I can only think of one sighting on the premises as long as I have been here. Not a single bite. Ever. But we must be ready, mustn't we? She looked over at the cabinet. "Though truth be told, that mixture may be expired, I am not certain. I shouldn't tell you this, but I'm a bit overdue to