A Turbulent Triangle

By Seth Ketron

Darla Ballinger is looking forward to a week in the Connecticut countryside at the mansion of Charles and Paula Patton. The week promises at first to be an enjoyable one as several friends and family have gathered to celebrate Paula's birthday. However, when letters threatening Charles start appearing in the mansion, the happy picture quickly fal

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Dec 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781641113731

Book preview

Chapter 1.

The Arrival.

A

n emerald-green convertible, rather dusty from an afternoon of driving, had just crossed an ancient-looking wooden bridge. The bridge, having long since shed its bright coating of red paint, groaned in protest as the car crossed it, leading the car's driver to think, I am intensely worried whether I will make it across this old thing. Fortunately for her and her car, the bridge held, and the car proceeded through a small adjacent village. The bridge was the sole route to the rest of the world for the isolated village and its various lanes that meandered through the surrounding woods, but for many of the village's inhabitants, that's just how they wanted it. Although it was the mid-twentieth century, the village seemed stuck in a time decades earlier.

The car navigated through the narrow village street and purred into a lonely, tree-lined country lane, where it gained speed. Behind the convertible, a tailwind whipped at the freshly fallen leaves, the telltale sign of the onset of autumn. And behind the wheel of that convertible was Darla Ballinger. An intelligent, sarcastic, and sensible woman in her late forties, Darla had windswept long hair, nearly black, with a long gray streak flowing fearlessly from her hairline. A pair of green eyes, which a former suitor had described as pools of the fairest algae (unrelatedly, they were no longer on speaking terms), reflected the waning sun as they raked the trees for the entrance to 11 Coventry Lane.

Such a pleasant-sounding address, Darla had thought when she received the invitation. Images of an English cottage of half timbering floated across her mind…mullioned windows glowing deep amber from a fireplace or an oil lamp…ivy and roses climbing trellises and lining plaster and brick walls. Of course, the house wasn’t in England; it was in Connecticut, a few miles from a small village. Nevertheless, from what she had been told, the house and gardens surrounding it were nothing short of beautiful, and the time to be spent there would be pleasant.

Earlier that month, she had been invited by her best friend and next-door neighbor, Theda Moran, to spend the week at the home of Theda's cousin Paula and her husband, Charles. Darla had lived next door to Theda for fifteen years, each of them occupying a small brownstone on a relatively quiet Boston side street. The two had shared a close bond ever since Darla had moved in and Theda had carried over a crystal decanter of bourbon (bourbon also happened to be Darla's favorite beverage).

Good afternoon! I’m Theda, she had said.

Darla had happily replied with her own introduction. She felt an instant attraction to the chipper woman on her stoop.

This is for you, Theda announced, thrusting the decanter into Darla's hands. And if you don’t drink, we can’t be friends.

Oh, not to worry, Darla replied laughingly as she gestured over her shoulder to her fully stocked minibar. They called me ‘Barla’ in school.

At that moment, a beautiful friendship was born, which flourished admirably: Darla and Theda had become best friends, talking through all their problems and stories with gusto and sharing the typical kinds of mischief younger-turned-middle-aged women often got into. Now, both in their late forties, they were no less energetic and no less inclined to enjoy each other's company: Darla, a professor who wrote in her spare time, and Theda, the owner of a prominent and highly successful bookstore in the neighborhood.

Of course, Darla thought as a sudden and powerful yawn overtook her, only friendship could have induced her to make such a boring drive. She hated road trips, though she was thankful it was not in the middle of winter, and in any case, she was looking forward to the destination. She had been driving for several hours through barren roads and hoped she was quite close…she had to be close; she was on Coventry Lane at that moment. But the last house she had seen, just outside the turnoff to the village she passed, had been a few miles back, and all she could see was the thinning canopy of tree branches that hooded the road. For her, arrival would come not a moment too soon: her sore backside throbbed achingly as she shifted in her seat, attempting to restore feeling to her left thigh.

In her back seat reposed a herringbone trunk, packed with all the essentials of a week-long trip to a remote estate. These included a wardrobe suitable for formal dining, casual lounging, playing lawn games, and any other particular activities in which one commonly engages in the country. A small collection of books Darla loved to read before bed was arranged neatly at the bottom beside a trusty, well-insulated backup supply of bourbon (one never knew about these country houses and their potentially teetotaling inhabitants). On top of these, beneath the gently arranged clothing, were her grooming bags and her writing case. Heavy as the trunk was, Darla never felt that weight was an indicator of unseemliness, and besides, one had to be prepared!

Finally, the dark iron gates of a drive appeared, flanked by two fully grown red maple trees and assorted shrubbery on either side. Neatly polished brass numbers adorned the rightward of the two cement pillars beside the gate: 1-3-2. Yes, this was the place. Darla applied the brakes gently, leaves and branches crunching under the slowing wheels, and carefully pulled into the drive (Someone really should fix that pothole, she thought). The drive, a brick-paved affair that swept in front of a magnificent Georgian mansion, completely encircled a three-tiered fountain and continued around the side of the house, where it disappeared among a few outbuildings. She pulled the car up toward the house and parked near the front door, painted a respectable dark red to complement the verdant hues of the front lawn.

As she got out of the car, placing a booted foot onto the brick pavement, she took a moment to take in her surroundings. While the lawn was not prim or precisely kept, the choices of shrubbery, flowers, trees, and other flora were smart—low maintenance, with a natural sprawling tendency. Indeed, the entire effect suggested an attitude of We have money, and we care about the lawn, but we have better things to spend it on than gardeners. The fountain sung cheerfully as water poured from its apex and flowed down two tiers into a sizable basin at the bottom.

Darla nodded appreciatively: unlike the fountain at her university, this one wasn’t full of coins and bottle caps, nor was it likely that students filled it with soap every so often as a prank.

Off the drive and around the side of the house, partially obscured from the entry, Darla noted that the largest of the outbuildings was a garage designed to match the house's façade, a half dozen or so forbidding doors punctuating its longest side.

How many cars does a person need? Darla said aloud.

The overall effect was impressive, yet not obnoxious. Though Charles and Paula would have been what some families in Connecticut thought of as nouveau riche, they certainly did not outwardly appear as such.

Darla swished in her tweeds to the door, lifted an impeccably polished yet simply designed doorknocker, and clacked three times. A few seconds later, the door noiselessly swung open, and on the threshold appeared a well-dressed butler in small, circular glasses; his head, balding but neatly groomed, gleamed in the reflected sunlight. He offered no immediate warm greeting, but his manner was pleasant.

Darla felt that this butler could have been taken straight from the pages of a nineteenth-century British novel, gloves, tails, and all.

How may I help you, madam? he inquired, his baritone voice falling pleasantly and evenly on Darla's ears.

He even has the accent, Darla thought, and she felt unsure how to respond.

Hi, erm…I’m Darla Ballinger. I was invited by Mrs. Patton for the week.

Ah, yes, Dr. Ballinger. The master and mistress eagerly await you. Do you need assistance with your belongings? Ah, a trunk…yes, I see. I shall have young Marshall take it as I show you to your room.

The butler signaled, and a lanky young man appeared. He was crowned by short black hair and a cap to match his uniform. He saluted Darla and, moving to her car, hoisted her trunk from the back seat with rather surprising ease, given his willowy frame.

Turning back to the butler, Darla asked, What is your name?

I am called Penrose, the butler replied.

Pleased to meet you, Penrose.

And I you, Dr. Ballinger, the butler replied.

This whole thing feels like an old novel in my trunk, Darla thought, except the men in this house probably don’t hunt incessantly, and the women probably don’t faint six times a day.

Marshall excused himself past the two on the doorstep, after which Penrose gestured into the house.

Do come in, Dr. Ballinger, he invited.

At this second utterance of Darla's formal title, she said, Please, call me Darla.

Though she indeed had a PhD and was both well published and well regarded in her discipline, she was uncomfortable with her formal title outside of work.

Ah…but house rules, you understand, Penrose politely objected. Might we settle for Dr. Darla? Penrose suggested, no note of jocularity in his manner.

How about Miss Darla? she offered, half-jokingly.

Penrose took this as a serious suggestion. Certainly, Miss Darla.

The now-christened Miss Darla passed over the threshold, where she was immediately greeted by an opulent hall of a square shape. A large staircase, wide at the bottom and narrowing slightly as it flowed upward, dominated the hall. At the landing, a corridor appeared to lead to different wings of the house on the first floor. At the bottom of the stairs reposed a highly polished round table of dark wood, which held an overstuffed vase of fall flowers. Darla looked approvingly at the pleasing swirl of yellow, orange, and red that contrasted sharply with the deep chocolate of the table. Several doors, some open and some closed, lined the ground floor, and overhead, a lavish chandelier of teardrop glass pieces cast a soft, fragmented light over the room. A faint scent of age, cooking, and cinnamon hung in the air, noticeable but not overpowering. The overall effect was warm and inviting.

Marshall was already moving up the staircase, trunk held squarely in his arms. Momentarily, he reached the upstairs landing and vanished to the left.

Right this way, Miss Darla, Penrose said, gesturing smoothly with a gloved hand.

Darla followed Marshall's path upstairs, noting the iron and wood banisters and plush carpet lining the stairs as she went. From the landing, she made her way left, past two closed doors painted a gentle mauve, until they reached the last door on the right (also mauve). Marshall opened the door, pulling the trunk behind him, and switched on the light. Darla followed him into the room and examined her home for the next week.

The room was a sizable rectangle with two windows facing the back lawn and one overlooking the outbuildings to the left of the house. A king-sized bed with four oversized, hand-carved posts dominated the wall beside the door. The room also contained a dressing table, a wardrobe, and a writing table and chair, all of which matched the polished wood of the bed. Leading off the other windowless interior wall was a small yet well-appointed private bathroom, its tiles and fixtures gleaming from a thorough and recent polishing.

Whether from the long, tiring drive or the sure satisfaction doing so would bring, Darla felt an urge to plop onto the bed, which looked more like an overstuffed marshmallow than an assemblage of textiles and stuffing. However, she resisted, more from the knowledge that she would likely fall asleep immediately than from the fear of being perceived as rude or strange (she was used to those kinds of accusations from her students).

Marshall deposited the trunk near the wardrobe, bowed at Darla's thanks, and left the room.

Will you be requiring anything, Miss Darla? Penrose asked politely, hands behind his back.

No, no, thank you, Penrose, replied Darla, who compromised with herself and pushed her hand into the fluffy mattress.

Penrose bowed. Very well. I believe the master and mistress are down in the garden, if you wish to see them now. Otherwise, you are free to roam the house…within reason, of course.

I’ll wipe my fingerprints off the safe once I’m done cleaning it out, Darla replied, feeling that her dry joke might fall flat on an exquisitely trained butler. To her surprise, though, Penrose chuckled (were butlers allowed to show emotion like that?).

Dinner will be served at seven o’clock, Penrose continued. Drinks will begin in the lounge at six. You will find towels and grooming implements in the bathroom cupboards, and there is a phone in the hall should you wish to make any calls. If you require anything during your stay, please alert me.

My, my, you are efficient, Penrose, Darla replied, feeling as if she had just checked into a hotel.

Thank you, Miss Darla, Penrose replied flatly. Good afternoon. With that, he left the room, silently closing the door behind him.

Darla moved to one of the back windows, where she saw the slender figure of Paula alongside the rather more rotund figure of Theda, both in laughing conversation as they slowly strolled among the fading greenery and smooth pebble paths near the terrace. On the terrace itself was Charles, a lean figure in an oversized blue suit, seated at an expensive set of wooden patio furniture. He appeared to be chatting heartily with a tall figure crowned by closely cropped and graying hair. Both men puffed on cigars and sipped a dark fluid (brandy, perhaps). The red-bricked terrace spread out beneath them to flank the entire backside of the house. There were a few other tables and chairs of the same polished wood nearby, but these were unoccupied.

Darla moved to unpack her things. She hoisted the trunk onto the bed and set to work on unlatching it. Come on, you stubborn thing, she thought, slamming her fist into the insistent right lock she never got around to getting oiled or replaced. She removed and placed her clothing into the ample wardrobe, shaking out the wrinkles and organizing the items. She deposited her books and writing case on the table and left her grooming bag and backup bourbon on the dressing table.

After a quick freshening up in the bathroom (she definitely couldn’t wait to try out the round bathtub), Darla made her way back to the hall and into the back corridor behind the stairs in search of the door to the terrace. Daylight at either end of the corridor revealed multiple exits. Thinking of the view from her room's location at the top, left, and back of the house, she correctly chose the one on the left; she emerged onto the brick terrace near where she had seen Charles and the other man talking. Paula and Theda were farther away, but she could hear their voices, indistinct and cheerful in the crisp air.

Darla Ballinger, as I sit here smoking too much! Charles's hearty voice echoed clearly off the house and caught the attention of the two women in the yard, who both waved and turned toward them.

Charles! Darla replied, her smile just a bit wider than was believable. She had met Charles before, and he was likable enough, yet there was something about him she didn’t like. Was it the stubble?

He swept down and hugged her, brushing his cheek against hers (yes, it was the stubble). It's been ages! How's life treating you?

Oh, you know…write a book, teach some students, drink some bourbon, Darla replied.

Charles smiled. What an exciting life you lead. Sometimes, I wish we could take trips inside people's heads rather than to distant lands. Here, meet my good friend Ridley Rockwood. Ridley, this is Darla Ballinger.

Pleased to meet you! Ridley cried, making Darla half jump. Clearly, the man had no sense of volume—or sense of physical strength, judging by the force of his handshake.

And I, you! Darla replied, warbling from the violent tremors Ridley exacted on her arm and sounding rather more enthusiastic than she normally did.

I have been looking forward to visiting Chuckie and his old lady again, Ridley replied, voice still booming. I must say, Paula looks much younger than her fifty years! Still the same young beauty she was when they married!

Darla's impression of Ridley was of a man who worked around loud, heavy machinery and thus spoke with permanent volume.

Aloud, she said, And how do you know…Chuckie? she asked, hesitating ironically on the nickname.

Ridley chuckled. Chuckie and I go way back. We were in school together, had many a good time, didn’t we?

Charles smiled, though sheepishly; apparently, those were times he’d prefer to forget, or at least not to mention in front of his wife's cousin's best friend.

Ah, those were the days, Ridley reminisced, swigging the brandy in his glass. But now, I fly. I flew for the Air Force for a time. I guess…what can you say? I kept on flying and just flew right out of there! He seemed to think this was funny, as he chuckled for a moment. Now I fly commercially. No more death dives or aerial acrobatics for me. The passengers would throw me out the window if I tried—assuming they weren’t puking or passed out.

Paula and Theda mercifully reached them at this moment.

Darla! Paula also showed excitement at seeing Darla again, though her excitement wasn’t as likely to frighten small children. She clasped Darla's hands and gave her a gentle hug. Theda merely smiled and waved; having lived next door to Darla for so long, there was no air of the long-lost reunion about her.

How’ve you been, Paula? Darla asked.

Oh, lovely, she replied with a smile. I just love fall…and I have a feeling that my fiftieth year will be the best one yet.

You’ve never been lovelier, Ridley boomed, causing an unlucky small pigeon, who had wandered over searching for food, to squawk disapprovingly and take flight.

Fly right out of here, little bird, thought Darla.

How was your drive? Paula continued. You didn’t have any trouble, did you?

Found the place just fine! Darla replied.

Excellent. Penrose has settled you in?

Superbly.

Wonderful. Well, shall we have a tour of the house and grounds?

Darla waved to the men, who, after uttering the accepted temporary goodbyes, resumed their conversation and chosen vices. Paula led Darla all along the paths of the back lawn, which was a paradise. Beds of all kinds of flowers and shrubs dotted the lawn (which would be in vibrant bloom during the spring, Paula mentioned). In the center of the lawn, somewhat hidden from view from the house by trees, was a large pond; it had a stone bridge across the center and held a number of koi and a few turtles. Benches had been placed in strategic locations for anyone who wished to roam the grounds for a private place to sit. Toward the back of the property was a sizable fire pit on the left, which Paula indicated was used to burn trimmings, dead plants, and other garden refuse. A scum-covered pond and ramshackle shed were on the right, both of which appeared neglected.

No one ever comes down to this part of the property, Paula commented, following Darla's eyes to their derelict state. We sort of just let this little part go…everyone tends to spend time at the big koi pond.

The two women having returned to the house, Paula showed Darla the rooms on the ground floor. In the back of the house, there was the entry to the staff quarters, where Penrose, Marshall, Annie (the cook), Amelia (the housekeeper), and Farah (the secretary) resided; the ample kitchen and pantry space, which could have fit the entirety of Darla's first apartment into it; the dining room, which overlooked the terrace through two sets of French windows; and the entry to the cellar. Off the hall toward the front of the house were the remaining rooms on the ground floor. First, Darla