LM 19: Still Life

[Eyes]

Literary Mosaic 19

Still Life

As the great red sun descended behind the mountains, its beams streamed forth and hit the water at just the right location to create a vast stream of colors, dancing on the lake. As the colors dove and rose and skated upon the surface, they seemed to rush down to a little beach where two people were reclining in their chairs. One of these people was a man in his 50s, short but not overly short, plump but not overly plump, with short blonde hair and a short blonde mustache that seemed to go well with the short goatee he had also been cultivating. He sat there, with a hat on his head and blinders over his eyes, so as to keep out the sun. To the rest of the world it seemed as though he was merely sleeping, and yet beyond sight, the rest of his senses were as alert as ever. This was Mr. Gunnarson, Swedish detective and culinary chef, on holiday from the noise and commotion of London.

The woman next to him was in her early 40s, wearing something between a bikini and a dress. She was a dark brunette, with sunglasses perched on her nose and a floppy sun hat tilting over her face. She had a pencil in hand, and seemed to have been writing in a notebook, but currently that had been placed to the side as she now gazed at the water that still dazzled before her eyes. This was Ms. Oliver Wolf, the famous detective novelist, also on vacation to try to get some new inspiration for the book that she was writing.

Finally she turned to her neighbor. "Why don't you remove the eye mask for a bit, Gunnarson? Look at how lovely the lake is in the sunset!"

Gunnarson just turned his head in her direction. "I'm afraid that I am too lazy for that tonight, madam. There will always be another sunset tomorrow. I shall open my eyes then."

"Suit yourself," she said, and went back to her gazings.

The two of them were staying in the tall old building behind them. It was a guest house, secluded from the rest of the village and perched poetically right along the lake. Alongside Mr. Gunnarson and Ms. Wolf, there were four other people or families that stayed here, plus the couple who owned the building. It was peaceful, and yet in Gunnarson's mind he still found it hard not to think of work.

Just at that moment, two children came running down the hill from the house, screaming with delight, and plunged into the waters below. Their mother, long out of breath, came jogging down to their location. Gunnarson chuckled as he observed them.

[frankthetriviaman]

"Ah, the innocence of youth" Gunnarson admired as the children continued making their way to the water. They were splashing and screaming like there was no tomorrow. The mother called out to them, and told them to keep it down. "We aren't the only ones here, be considerate!" she called out before sighing and looking at the two, "I am so sorry about them, they enjoy the water a bit too much I'm afraid" she confessed.

"It is quite all right; I wasn't quite asleep anyway so it doesn't bother me" Gunnarson assured.

"Glad to hear; I'm Delila Robinson, I think we are staying in the room next to yours?" The woman asked, trying to place the face.

"Ah, yes, that is correct. I seem to remember the sound of children playing coming from next door. Pleasure to meet you" Gunnarson said to Mrs. Robinson, as she set up some things not too far away from Gunnarson and Wolf.

It must have been another 15 or 20 minutes of quiet, before another figure came to the beach. It was an older but not elderly man, in a suit that wasn't quite formal, but certainly better than casual; ideal for working the front desk of the small Inn that Gunnarson was currently staying at. The man came to the beach and called out, "Mr. Gunnarson, a moment of your time, please!" to get the Swede's attention.

Gunnarson sighed before getting up from his seat, and walking over towards the man; Walter Farragut, the owner of the Inn alongside his wife. "Mr. Farragut, is everything all right?" Gunnarson asked.

"Oh yes, there is no emergency, rest assured. Well, there is, but it is a small one" Farragut began. "Perhaps you may be able to assist us?" Farragut explained.

"What is the problem?" Gunnarson asked, concerned.

"It's tonight's dinner. We're planning a three course meal of soup, entrée and dessert, and as I'm sure you agree from your first night here yesterday, our chefs do a marvelous job" Farragut began.

"Oh, yes, many compliments to your chefs: the chicken yesterday was cooked to perfection" Gunnarson said with respect. "And I saw tonight's menu as well: French onion soup, roast beef with baked potatoes and vegetables, and red velvet cake for dessert. I greatly admire their talent, for handling a different menu every night" he finished.

"Thank you. But, I'm afraid there's been a situation- it's Fredrick's sous chef, Pierre. I'm afraid I learned not even an hour ago that Pierre came down with a fever and was unable to come in today. Granted, Fredrick did marvelously with breakfast but... dinner is proving a bit much for him. I do recall our discussion about what you do for a living Mr. Gunnarson, and I didn't know where else to turn on such short notice" Mr. Farragut said, as he took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

Gunnarson didn't look taken aback, but he certainly had a feeling he knew where this was going. "Mr. Farragut, are you asking me what I think you are asking me?" Gunnarson said, having deduced where this was going.

"I know you are a guest and I normally wouldn't do this, but I didn't know where else to turn on such short notice. You have every right to say no, but would you please consider giving Fredrick a hand with the potatoes and vegetables?" Mr. Farragut said, with a sincerity that made Gunnarson realize he wasn't doing this just to annoy him.

[Eyes]

“Of course I accept!” declared Gunnarson with gusto. “Cooking is my passion, and I am never down whenever I am at work in a kitchen.”

“You will be compensated of course,” Mr. Farragut assured him, but Gunnarson waved him off.

“No, no, I insist. You paid for the supplies, and I still get to eat the food, no? Preparing them is nothing, it is so simple. I came on vacation to avoid the commotions of London, but I must say it has been a little boring with nothing to cook lately. No, min vän, this is on me.”

The two men shook hands, and Mr. Farragut made a mental note to at least reduce Gunnarson’s bill in gratitude.

The two men walked into the house, and Farragut led Gunnarson to the kitchen. “Fredrick!” he called.

The chef appeared, with a well-worn white apron covering up a well-worn white shirt.

“Fredrick, this is Mr. Gunnarson, one of our guests here. By trade he’s a cook. He said he can help you tonight on the menu since Pierre is sick.”

“Excellent,” said the chef with a smile.

The two men shook hands.

“Now then,” said Gunnarson, “where should I start?”

[frankthetriviaman]

"Please begin preparing the baked potatoes and the cutting the vegetables; don't worry about dessert for the moment; everything is measured out, it just needs to be put together"

"Potatoes and vegetables I can handle no issue... but I must confess I have never made red velvet cake" Gunnarson admitted

"Have you made Devil's food cake before?" Fredrick asked.

"Ah, yes. Not regularly, but I am familiar with the process" the Swede assured.

"Then you have nothing to be concerned about; the only difference between the two is the the red coloring" Fredrick explained.

"Well why didn't you say so? You have my word, the rest of the evening shall run smoothly" Gunnarson assured.

"Splendid; oh, please excuse me" Fredrick said, before going to stir the soup and then checking the roast.

It was a most welcome change of pace; Gunnarson was fond of his native Sweeden's cuisine, but being able to make something different was like an experience to him; when he did not have mysteries to solve, he enjoyed sampling the different tastes he could find.

"Your approach is most interesting; you just offer a set menu each night; multiple courses but no choices for each. We could never do that at Koket" Gunnarson observed.

"Ah, but that is the difference between cooking for an Inn and a restaurant. The trick to serving up to 20 people each night is to make dishes that can be cooked in a batch, but then cut and served to the guest" Fredrick explained, checking the temperature of the meat.

That was when it hit Gunnarson, "Of course! A single pot of soup that can be put into bowls, a roast that can be sliced, and a cake that can be cut!" he said in amazement

With Gunnarson's help, the preparation went quite smoothly. The roast was nearing completion and the cake underway as Gunnarson laid out the bowls for pouring.

"10...11...12! All right, that is everyone!" Gunnarson called out.

"Splendid; just cut the Gruyere for me and I'll take it from here; after all this I think we can both agree that you could use a change of clothes" Fredrick explained.

Guunnarson eyed himself and realized the truth in that, "Indeed; thank you for this most welcome activity Fredrick; I look forward to tonight" he said in delight as he finished cutting the Gruyere for the French Onion Soup.

"Yes; and thank you for your assistance tonight. Oh, and before you ask- do not worry, I have breakfast under control. If there is one dish I can handle with no problems, it is the full English breakfast" Fredrick said with a laugh.

"Oh well, can't win them all" Gunnarson quipped as he returned the apron and left the kitchen.

He walked through the Inn's lobby towards the stairs to the rooms. The Inn could comfortably seat 20 guests, but Gunnarson knew from the soup bowls that there were currently only 12 staying tonight. Besides himself, there was Ms. Oliver Wolf... "Not Wolff" he had to remind himself; she had no relation to Nigel Wolff; the dog trainer Stein had told him about. Then there was four other groups staying at the hotel; 10 individuals in total. There was Delila Robinson and her two children; but he felt like he had lost track, who were the other seven? And divided into three parties, as he recalled. As he neared the steps, he saw a pair of older ladies, probably in their early 70s, sitting at a couple chairs and gossiping about the day's events.

"Ah, Mr Gunnarson, did you enjoy the beach today?" The one in the lavender garments said.

"Very much so; I'd love to chat, but unfortunately I must change for dinner" Gunnarson said politely.

"Most unfortunate; but if you want to talk later, we will be here until its time to go to the dining hall" the one in the pale blue garments said.

"Noted; well, must be off" Gunnarson said as he walked up the stairs, before it him, "Oh, yes; Ms. Douglass and Ms. Bailey, the permanent residents" Gunnarson realized as he continued to his room. "Right, so five more people, in two parties. Or, was someone else with the Robinsons? Ah well, best not to worry about it for now" Gunnarson sighed as he finally reached his room. He was looking forward to tonight

[Eyes]

Gunnarson spun around in front of his mirror. This new suit... suited him. It was a royal shade of blue, accompanied with a flaming red tie, both gifts of his newly found Finnish love Tarja. Over the past year, the two of them had spent quite the time together. Never before had Gunnarson been quite so enraptured by someone, but Tarja... well, Tarja could outwit even the Swede himself.

As he stood looking longer at the mirror he thought of her. Right now she was probably about to get off work. Her vacation time wasn't as compatible as his. The Koket was very gracious with the time they granted him off. Three weeks he had carved out of his schedule for this trip, and he was currently partway through the first. Tarja, unfortunately, would only be getting two, but she was going to join him here sometime in the upcoming week. With that, Gunnarson smiled contentedly. In the meantime there was always something interesting for his bloodhound nose to sniff out.

As the clock struck 6, Gunnarson gave his suit one last look in the mirror, and then he went downstairs to the dining room. There he figured out who the next batch of the 12 supping with him tonight were.

"Of course!" he thought. "Mr. and Mrs. Farragut, and Frederick the cook himself." They all stayed in that same house, no reason to segregate the dinner cooked for all. But that left two people over. Where were they coming from?

Gunnarson was the fifth to get to the table, proceeded only by the Farraguts, Frederick, and Ms. Wolf. He sat next to the author and she instantly sized up his suit.

"Looking like a million bucks tonight, are we, Mr. Gunnarson?"

He smiled. "A gift from a friend of mine, I figured it could be put to use on the occasion," he replied as she chuckled.

"Friends... I know all about them," and she winked at Gunnarson, who turned a bright shade of crimson!

Presently Delilah Robinson and her children came in, the latter of which practically jumped onto the table, but were pacified once seated. Then the older women, and now the group was waiting for only two more people.

Mr. Farragut looked at his watch. "Hmm... still haven't checked in yet. Ah well, no need to keep on waiting, they can have their supper once they get here. Frederick, can I assist you with the serving tonight?"

"Of course not, sir, Gunnarson has already helped enough. Just a moment, everyone, and I shall bring the first course of the evening!"

Frederick flew through his job of waiting with an ease of experience and then resumed his seat at the table after detailing everything the group would be eating. They were halfway through the first course - and echoes of "My goodness, this is delicious!" rang through the room - when the group heard the front door open.

"I shall check who that is," said Mr. Farragut, getting up. Moments later, he returned with the presence of a tall, commanding woman who was luxurious in both body and outfit.

"Something's in the air," thought Gunnarson, "and I think it smells of Money."

[frankthetriviaman]

Gunnarson looked over the woman who had just walked into the door; he felt a strange sense of Deja vu, but couldn't quite place it. There was something about the woman that just felt so familiar, and yet there was something... different at the same time. Almost as if he was looking at a park statue he hadn't seen in years, but time had taken its toll and the appearance had slightly changed.

"Good evening everybody; so sorry I am late! That smell, could it be... oh, how delightful! French Onion Soup! Has it been sitting a while? I do prefer it not to be very hot" she said as she made her way in and made herself comfortable.

"Wait a minute..." Gunnarson thought to himself, "that voice, and that Yorkshire accent, where have I heard that before?" He said, trying to place the face. But it was the beauty mark below her right eye that finally jogged his memory.

The woman was just beginning, "Oh, where are my manners? Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier, but I am..."

"My God, it can't be" Gunnarson interrupted as he stood up slowly, "Lady Goodwin?" He said, finally placing the face.

The woman found herself taken by surprise, "well this is a surprise; Mr. Gunnarson! Fancy meeting you here after all these years" Goodwin said as she sat down and Mr. Farragut brought her the soup.

"You know him?" Ms. Wolf asked in surprise.

"But of course, he solved the murder of a dear friend of mine" Lady Goodwin explained.

"Dr. James Walker; truly a sad day I must admit; happened right under my nose too. To think they killed him over wages" Gunnarson sighed.

"Ah, but it is best not to dwell on the past too much, wouldn't you say? Come now, let us enjoy our meal" Goodwin said as she began to dig in.

Gunnarson was surprised by this turn of events, but decided to move on and enjoy the evening. He even thought about giving Tarja a call later that evening. Indeed, for the first time in a long while he could feel like he was able to relax and not let life's burdens get to him. He was looking forward to this evening

[Eyes]

After dinner, Gunnarson took a walk along the lake. The sparkling waters had an effect on the Swede. It was as though it called him, beckoned him, to gaze into its wake and become lost to the secrets it held within. So he stood for a time, before he at last he forced himself to break the spell and return to his room.

After a cup of warm milk and a reading of the next chapter in Dorothy Sayers’s book Have His Carcase, Gunnarson fell into a deep sleep in his armchair. The swirling waters of the mind spirited him away, into the lands where day cannot intrude — and then a crash, bang, wallop, and yelp awoke him. He glanced at the time. 12:04.

Gunnarson, revolver in pocket, dashed out his door and onto the staircase, only to see before his eyes a man of about 30, draped in a grey suit, black pants, and with a grey hat that had left his head due to the… scene that was now surrounding him.

[frankthetriviaman]

"My God... what happened?" Gunnarson said in shock as he quickly ran for the person. He got the person onto his back, and looked him over... no blood, but there were scrapes and some small tears in the clothes. He could hear breathing... that was a relief, the man was not dead. But from his mouth, Gunnarson smelled a strong scent of whiskey. He looked over, and saw that the front door had been forced open.

At that point, Mr Farragut came running from down another hallway, in his pajamas and holding a light. "Gunnarson? Did you hear that too?" He asked.

"Yes... it would seem that a drunkard has forced his way into your inn. Didn't realize where he was if I had to guess" Gunnarson mused.

Farragut came over and looked over the person. He sighed as he realized what was going on. "Ah, the last guest that never made it to dinner. Guess he lost track of time at the pub" He sighed as he wiped his brow. "Please excuse me Mr. Gunnarson, but now I must secure that door and get our man onto the couch, at least" Mr. Farragut said as he went to check the state of the door frame

[Eyes]

The final member of the guestlist, Gunnarson thought to himself. Now who could this gentleman be?

Farragut was muttering something angrily under his breath. "...may be a paying guest, but I highly dislike them breaking down my door!"

"Do you need any help from me?" Gunnarson asked politely.

"Ah, no," Farragut replied, waving him away. "Don't fret any further about the matter. I'll take care of Mr. Consley here; please, go back to bed."

Gunnarson ascended the stairs and headed back to his room. Oliver Wolf had peeped her head out her door with a pen in hand and inquired as to the matter. "Just a late-arriving guest, that is all," responded the Swede.

"Well," she said, "he could stand to be a bit quieter. I'm in the middle of the death sequence." And she shut her door again.

Gunnarson had a rough time falling back asleep. It sounded like Mrs. Robinson's children next door had woken up and she was having a hard time quieting them back down. He assigned her no blame, but it was a while before he could fall back asleep.

The next morning he had woken up early and decided, with nothing better to do, to go for a swim in the lake. The water helped wake him up, and the pot of coffee Fredrick was brewing in the kitchen finished the job. He was sitting down at the table and enjoying a couple freshly baked croissant filled with meats and cheeses as the others began to come down one by one.

[frankthetriviaman]

Gunnarson was enjoying his quiet morning, and then, he saw it... the Mr. Consley from last night, no question about it. He had slunk into a table in the corner and was nursing a cup of coffee while waiting for his English breakfast. As for the Swede, he very nearly found himself lost in his thoughts until he heard his voice called out to him.

"Mr. Gunnarson? Mr Gunnarson!" he snapped out of it, and there before him, was Ms. Wolf.

"Ah, my apologies, Ms. Wolf. It seems I was drifting in my thoughts again" The Swede explained.

"It's quite all right. Anyway I was hoping that I could join you for breakfast this morning" She asked.

"But of course; is something the matter? Perhaps about last night?" He questioned, concerned.

"No, nothing like that. It's about my manuscript, actually. I was in a tough spot, and I got a flash of inspiration for a character... I'm making him Swedish, you see. I was hoping you might be able to translate the lines I want him to say; It'll make sense later on, but he only speaks his native tongue when he first appears" she explained.

[Eyes]

"Why, yes, of course I can help with that," replied Gunnarson.

Oliver Wolf set down a plate of scones and a cup of tea and took a seat on the other side of the Swede. Thereafter she retrieved a notepad from her jacket pocket and took out a pen. Taking a bite of a scone, she attempted to inquire about the Swedish language, but was cut off by Gunnarson, who raised his hands in protest.

"No, no, no!" he told her, firmly. "One does not start out as if it is grammar school, nej. I want to get a picture of this character first and foremost. What is he like?"

The writer sat back a bit and put her pen up to her lip in thought. Then she took out a pencil and began sketching out an image in her notepad.

"He's a tall fellow," she said, "with grayish-white hair, excellently barbered... Always dressed as though he's attending a business meeting, finely tailored... Has a bit of a mustache... Piercing hazel eyes... A scar across his left eye from a long time back, mostly healed, but still visible and striking to an onlooker..."

"Does he come from the countryside," asked Gunnarson, "or the city?"

"City, most definitely. Well... maybe he was born in the countryside... I'm not quite sure about that."

"It's pretty important information," insisted Gunnarson. "Swedish people don't all speak the same and there are distinct differences between rural and metropolitan areas."

Oliver Wolf reconsidered.

[frankthetriviaman]

"Are such details truly important?" Wolf asked?

"Ms. Wolf, do you know what cooking, writing, and investigating all have in common? What common thread they share?" Gunnarson asked.

"There is an overlap among them?" she asked.

"Indeed there is: the importance of attention to detail. When cooking, you must have the ingredients measured out just correctly, and have them cook just the right amount of time to have the desired result. In investigation, you must notice the details around you, for it is in them you will find the truth to what happened. And in writing, as my associate Mr. Hartley can attest to, detail is important, for it establishes your story's setting and brings its fictional world to life. Sure, things like this may sound unimportant, but it is the details that bring your world to life, versus being a mere collection of lines that tell a narrative" Gunnarson explained.

Ms. Wolf took in what Gunnarson said, and nodded.  "I see... so attention to detail is important... in this case, for making my characters feel alive" she said in realization.

"It is as the Germans say, “Der liebe Gott steckt im detail”, you see" Gunnarson replied.

[Toz76]

"I'm curious, Mister Gunnarson," Wolff said, tapping her pen against her chin, "have you read any of my novels?"

"I've read a couple, ja," Gunnarson said. "My friend Davis--Davis Gent--lent me his copy of A Murder In The Highlands a few years ago, and I also read The Indian Painting on a long train journey some months ago." 

"As an actual Private Investigator--"

"Largely retired. I have a job now, and a woman in my life, I can't go gallivanting off chasing mobsters and murderers like when I was young." Gunnarson shrugged modestly.

"Former PI, then." Wolff continued, undeterred. "As someone who solves crimes for a living, I simply must ask... how convincing are my tales? From the perspective of someone who's been 'in the trenches', as it were."

Gunnarson nodded. "Well, your character work is very well done. The Scottish farmer and his mute wife, for example. Extremely well-realized characters whose motives were compelling."

"Why thank you." Wolff sat up a bit straighter, clearly flattered.

"But I must admit..." Gunnarson sighed. "I recognize that the kriminalroman is hardly the domain of the concrete and factual. No one wants to read about bullet trajectory analysis. But the casework in your stories remains somewhat... sloppy. Sherwin regularly handles evidence with bare hands, tampers with evidence, follows wild hunches. A good mystery story is like a puzzle. As you read further, you find more pieces, and the image becomes clearer. But reading about your Cherokee art thief, it felt like several puzzles whose pieces had been mixed together."

Wolff's lips tightened. "I see."

"I mean no offense, of course. Policemen and detectives are far more critical of mystery novels than the average reader. When you do it for a living, it is easy to poke holes in a story." 

Wolff nodded, still hurt but accepting the logic of Gunnarson's statement. "As I'm sure you've inferred, I'm not just here for a book review and help with dialect."

"Of course. You've been attempting to engage me in conversation since yesterday. And I suspect I know why."

"Gunnarson, your dear Hartley has a stain on his name. There's great demand from the public for more stories of you, but you've lost your Watson, your Christie. It took, what, two years for that newest volume to get finished?"

Gunnarson nodded. "There was a delay with the climactic chapter. The publishers kept trying to get us to rewrite Blade's final words, make them more dramatic or poetic or somesuch. I'm just glad it's resolved at last."

"Likewise, but surely you don't wish to keep your loyal public waiting for the next mystery?"

"I am flattered by your interest, Wolff, but Hartley is the one who writes my stories. There's no replacing his voice. And regardless, as I said before, I am a new man. I have found a new passion in the matlagningskonst. If God wills it, there will be no more murders in my path. Perhaps I'll do the odd consultation, help out Gent's dear daughter as she begins her career, but that chapter of my life is ending. And besides, wasn't Blade's death a fitting enough end?"

Wolff sighed. "Very well, Gunnarson. I can't say I'm surprised. I do hope you'll think about it, though. I'm here for another week, there's plenty of time to change your mind."

Gunnarson stood, patting the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "My mind is made up, but I thank you again for the offer and for the breakfast conversation. Now, if you will excuse me, I wish to take a walk along the lakeshore before the sun's heat becomes too much."

The rest of the morning passed in comfort. Gunnarson's stroll was uneventful but relaxing. As he made his way back to the inn for lunch, he considered his options. Perhaps a trip to the village this afternoon to see the shops? Ah, but maybe he should wait for Tarja so they could experience them together.

As he approached the inn, however, he heard raised voices. Gunnarson picked up the pace, jogging to the beachfront behind the inn. 

There was quite a scene unfolding before him. A small crowd had gathered to watch the argument unfold. At the center of the group was the owner, Farragut, and the drunk man from last night, Consley, arguing with one another. 

"I've had enough of this treatment, Farragut! You treat me like dirt, and now you want to ban me from your inn?"

"You broke down a door, Nigel! To say nothing of the disturbance you caused for our young guests last night. Your public intoxication, your shameful behavior towards our female guests... if you do not pay for the damage you caused last night, I will have no other choice!"

"You bastard! My father built this inn! It's my birthright! You can't keep me from it!"

"Your father left the inn to me! I've let you stay at a reduced rate out of the goodness of my heart and the respect I have for your father, but I cannot enable your drunkard behavior any longer! This is your last chance." 

Consley took a few steps towards Farragut, then stumbled and caught himself. 

"My god, are you drunk already? It's not even lunchtime!" Farragut said. 

Consley glared at Farragut, but said no more. He couldn't hide the smell on his breath or the look in his eyes.

Gunnarson approached the two old ladies, who were watching the whole thing unfold. "Is this true? Did Nigel Consley's father build this place?"

"Oh, you don't know the story, do you?" Ms. Douglass asked.

"I must confess I do not know the history of this place," Gunnarson admitted. "I came here at a recommendation from a friend, I am not a local like yourself." 

"Oh, it's quite a story how the Farraguts became the owners of this little slice of paradise," Ms. Bailey said. "But a story for another time, perhaps."

"Indulge me," Gunnarson said. "I enjoy local history. There are few things more fascinating than the little human slices of the past one can only find in small towns." 

"Well, if you really want to know, come find us after lunch. We'll tell you the whole sordid affair," Ms. Douglass said, winking at Gunnarson. 

[Eyes]

And so, after a bite of roast beef on toast, Gunnarson met up with the two ladies with two mugs of coffee in his hand.

"Oh, no thanks, deary," said Ms. Bailey, "I will just stick to my tea."

Ms. Douglass accepted Gunnarson's proffered drink and the Swede sat down at the table. "Now, do tell me about this place and how it came to be."

Ms. Douglass began. "Well, this spot of land has had many owners in its day. In the early 1700s, it was the site of a popular tavern. When the owners died it was sold on and became a record office. But that office was moved to a nearby town and it once again changed hands and... well, the brothel they put in its place was the site of debauchery most vile and outrageous."

"Outrageous indeed!" chimed Ms. Bailey. "Why you had naked people lined up right 'round the block! At least, so I've heard."

"Most dreadful, yes," agreed Ms. Douglass. "Now eventually the place was shut down and sat abandoned until a fire consumed it."

"I still think it was arson," put in Ms. Bailey, "and thank goodness. About time someone in this town had enough sense to destroy that wretched thing."

"Well, Nelson Consley snapped up the plot dirt cheap. He was a local to the town and had a deep interest in our history. He built the inn you see before you to bring this place back to the glory days of the original tavern that stood on this land. I'm sure you've seen all the pictures and mementos of our town's history? He collected them."

"He was a wonderful man," nodded Ms. Bailey. "He held such a deep care for all of the people who stayed in his inn. No one was a stranger, and he let in any person who needed help."

"Often for free!" exclaimed Ms. Douglass with pride. "He and Mr. Farragut may have had their share of disagreements over the years, but they always put the needs of the people first."

"Well how did Mr. Farragut come to own the inn anyway?" asked Gunnarson.

"Ah! He was just a traveler from the big city who stopped by and fell in love with the place," explained Ms. Douglass. "He'd made his money early on in life thanks to his sharp business senses, and the inn was his way of escaping the stress of city life. He talked Mr. Consley into letting him run the business side of the inn. Perfect for Mr. Nelson, he always loved the day-to-day work more than taking stock of the finances."

The two ladies were lost in their thoughts, remembering the man they had, years ago, pined over.

Gunnarson interrupted these dreams. "So what happened to Mr. Consley?"

"It was the Gypsy," Ms. Bailey stated firmly.

"Pish-posh-poppycock!" snapped Ms. Douglass, "I will not have you slandering that poor woman's name. One of the nicest people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing and half this town remembers her as a witch. Patricia, I'm ashamed of you!"

Gunnarson cocked his head to one side in puzzlement and Ms. Douglass explained. "Back in the day we had a larger community of Travelers and Gypsies who lived in this town. There are still a few around but the scandal of the inn made many of them choose to leave." She glared at Ms. Bailey, who kept her mouth shut.

"Pray tell, what was this 'scandal'?" asked Gunnarson.

"Well, Rachel Codona was a young mother who was down on her luck, and Mr. Nelson hired her to work as a housekeeper in the inn. Most of us liked her, always had a smile on her face and she would cook on the chef's night off. Some of the best food I have ever had. I don't think she got on too well with Mr. Farragut, but they seemed to have a mutual respect for each other. Well, one evening she had been out and hadn't returned for dinner. They found her floating in the lake, face-down, lifeless. It was a shock to us all.

"It wasn't two months later when Mr. Nelson died in the lake himself. What made his case so different was the experience of shock and fear that they found on his face. An autopsy was performed on him - heart attack. Well when word spread about the way one of the town's most beloved members had died, people started blaming Ms. Codona's ghost, saying she was haunting the inn and that she was the reason Mr. Nelson died. Utter nonsense," - another glare at Ms. Bailey - "but you know how people are."

"Fascinating," said Gunnarson.

"But that's firmly not what Mr. Nigel believes, my dear sir," Ms. Bailey chimed in at last. "He still claims that the true killer of Mr. Nelson was Mr. Farragut."

[Toz76]

Gunnarson nodded sagely. "I think I can piece together the rest. Nigel thinks Walter Farragut wanted the deed to the hotel, and killed Nelson to get it."

"Got it in one," Ms. Douglass said. "According to Mr. Nigel, Mr. Farragut knew that Nelson would want to leave the inn to his son. But if Mr. Nelson died before Nigel came of age, then Farragut as co-owner would gain control of the whole place."

Gunnarson nodded. "I must admit my knowledge of inheritance law is a little bit rusty, but surely if that were the case, Nigel would still have inherited his share when he turned 18? Farragut would have been steward of Nelson's estate, but he would have had a legal obligation not to deny Nigel of his rightful inheritance."

"I don't know about all that, it's all Greek to me," Ms. Douglass said.

"I can answer this one!" Ms. Bailey chimed in. "Mr. Nelson had updated his will a few months before his death, leaving Mr. Nigel a substantial sum but leaving the inn itself entirely to Mr. Farragut. Nigel, of course, claims the updated will is a forgery, but the town attorney, Mr. Garrett White, was a close friend to Mr. Nelson and attested to its legitimacy."

"Did Nelson leave a widow?" Gunnarson asked.

"Oh, poor Mrs. Willemina, she passed not long after her husband did. The grief ate her up inside." Ms. Bailey said.

"Since then, Mr. Nigel's been resentful of Mr. Farragut. Him and his wife have done their best to raise their dear friend's boy, but he's become so bitter and resentful. He turned to the bottle, to petty crime, to spending his nights with loose women, and now the Farraguts are at their wits' end." Ms. Douglass shook her head, sadly. "And that's the long and short of it."

"Well, that and the ghost sightings," Ms. Bailey said.

"Oh, you and your ghosts!" Ms. Douglass sighed.

"I know what I saw! And I'm not the only one."

Gunnarson raised an eyebrow, a smirk creeping onto his face. "Ghosts?"

"Every few years or so, someone claims that they saw the ghost of Rachel Codona wandering the lakeshore at night. It's just a fable, a story told by attention-seeking tourists or particularly senile local women." Ms. Douglass gave a pointed glance at her companion.

Gunnarson laughed. "I'm not one to believe in ghosts."

"But you are a big-city detective," Ms. Bailey said. "What do you believe?"

Gunnarson furrowed his brows for a moment. "Sounds to me like Nelson's death was misadventure, a tragedy but an entirely mundane one. The young woman, too, I expect. Nigel's anger is expected of a passionate young man, but I think he is misguided."

"I told you he'd say that," Ms. Douglass said. Her companion scoffed.

Gunnarson took his leave and headed to the hotel lobby, where the hotel's pay phone was located. It was too early to call Tarja, who would still be working, but he did have one call he wanted to make.

"Operator, connect me to Detective Stein of Scotland Yard. Tell him Gunnarson wants to run something by him."

After a short wait, Stein's voice erupted through the speaker.

"Well I'll be damned, Gunnarson, what are you doing calling me during work from an inn payphone?"

Gunnarson smiled, glad to hear the voice of the experienced detective. "Ah, dear Stein! I have a hunch and I could use your help confirming it."

"You and your hunches..." Stein laughed. "Let's hear it."

Gunnarson checked his surroundings, making sure he was alone. "I was wondering if I could enquire about a cold case? The deaths of two people named Rachel Codona and Nelson Consley? There's a ghost involved, and I know how you love the supernatural."

"I know every cold case involving the supernatural in the entire British Commonwealth intimately, and I've not heard of them."

"Try closed cases, then."

"That'll take some digging, but for you, I'll give it a look. Can you give me a timeframe to narrow it down?"

"I'm not certain of the dates. Over a decade ago at least. Two people drowned in a lake, foul play suspected by some but never proven."

"Are you doing some sleuthing on your vacation?" Stein chuckled. "Tsk, tsk. I thought you were retired."

"I'm merely curious about a story I heard from the locals," Gunnarson said. "A retired handyman can still repair his friend's sink."

"Well, if I find anything, I'll give you a call, but no promises. Turner's been really pushing this "Deck of Cards" thing, I've been tracking vandals and counterfeiters for weeks without a break."

"Don't let my idle curiousity distract you from your work," Gunnarson said. "Pleasure talking to you, Stein."

"Likewise."

As Gunnarson left the phone, he heard a voice calling his name. It was Frederick, the chef.

"My good man," Frederick said. "I hate to impose on a guest again, but Pierre's illness has gotten worse and I would greatly appreciate an extra hand with tonight's dinner. If you would be so kind as to lend me your hand again, I would be ever so grateful."

"I would be delighted to help," Gunnarson said. "I do hope your poor sous chef recovers soon, but while he is waylaid I am delighted to lend a hand."

Plus, Gunnarson thought to himself, Frederick might be able to tell me more about those drownings.

Not that he actually thought there was foul play, of course. All the evidence pointed very nicely to tragic misadventure on the shores of the ocean's less tempestuous but no less deadly little sister. But there was just an inkling, a seed of doubt, in his mind. And in the mind of the Swede, those seeds, if not stamped out quickly, would grow like weeds until they consumed his every waking thought.

[frankthetriviaman]

Joining Frederick in the kitchen, Gunnarson saw some ingredients lying around the pot of soup that had been arranged, but not quite handled yet. "Most unusual, why have you not started the soup yet?" Gunnarson asked

"Well, to be honest I tried making this recipe a few months ago and it did not taste quite right; I had heard about it and thought it would be nice to try. But as is by pure chance the man helping me is Swedish and knowing your experience at "The Kitchen of Sweden" perhaps you can pull this off?" Frederick asked.

Gunnarson saw the onions, potatoes and spinach, and it hit him, "Ah ha! A man after my own heart! Spenatsoppa! Of course I know how to make this! If you do not mind though, I will be using my köket's recipe; I think you will find it much improved over the one you were given" Gunnarson said.

"Yes; I found the flavor to be lacking" Frederick admitted.

"And no wonder! You didn't use a single spice! Min vän, tell me at once, where are your spices? We must get the garlic, the rosemary and the pepper if we are to truly make a good Spenatsoppa!" Gunnarson declared

"Garlic's hanging on the rack by the pots; spice rack is across from the sink" Frederick explained.

"Wonderful!" Gunnarson said as he first went to the bunch of garlic and pulled off a pair of nice sized cloves. He observed Frederick preparing the chicken that would become tonight's main course as he started walking to the spice rack, "It would be best to wait until it is in the oven; I know better than to distract a chef as he prepares his dishes" he thought to himself

[Toz76]

Gunnarson knew this recipe like the back of his hand. The Koket's version wasn't quite the same as the version his mother made back home in Sweden, but making it still reminded him of his childhood home, helping his mother stir the pot as the smell wafted through their small kitchen.

I must get back to my hometown sometime, he thought to himself. Maybe next summer, if Tarja is willing...

Before long, the soup was simmering, and a delicious smell filled the air.

Frederick had just finished prepping the chicken and came over to check on him. "Marvelous work, my good man! I cannot thank you enough!"

"It was my pleasure, really," Gunnarson said. "This is your kitchen, I'm just honored I can help in my small way."

"Regardless, you truly have made my life so much easier."

"If I may ask," Gunnarson ventured, "you are a very talented chef. You could find work in any high-society restaurant in the nation. What draws you to cook here for such a small crowd?"

"I did actually work at a popular restaurant in London in my youth," Frederick said. "But about 20 years ago, Mr. Farragut hired me, and I've never regretted it. It pays well, I get to live in this beautiful slice of heaven, and as much as I loved the hectic city life, there's nothing quite like having a kitchen all your own to rule as you see fit."

"You've been here a while," Gunnarson said. "I imagine you have some stories to tell."

Frederick laughed. "Oh, I certainly do. Come back after dessert, and I'll tell you over a glass of wine."

"It'd be my pleasure," Gunnarson said.

Before long, the food was ready. Gunnarson headed out to the kitchen to rejoin the other guests.

"Thank you again for helping Frederick," Farragut said to him. "I should be paying you at this rate!"

"My pleasure, truly," Gunnarson said.

The other guests sidled in and took their seats. The atmosphere was awkward and quiet, and people kept making glances towards Nigel Consley's usual seat, which once again was empty.

[Eyes]

Gunnarson looked around at the silent guests. He was contemplating whether or not to strike up a conversation of some sort when Oliver Wolf started speaking as though there was no tension in the room whatsoever.

"Well I visited the chapel today, the one on the hill about a mile up the road. Curious thing. If I didn't know any better I'd think it was leaning."

"It is too," piped up Ms. Bailey. "They built it all wrong."

"It wasn't their fault," said Ms. Douglass. "They were scammed by that drifter passing himself off as an architect."

"Whatever happened to him?" asked Mrs. Farragut.

"Last I heard he'd been picked up by the police in West Castle for stealing from a ninety year old woman," said Ms. Douglass. "My Tom said he heard about this from his officer friends."

"Oh please, tell me the whole story!" begged Ms. Wolf.

"Get out your notepad, deary," Ms. Bailey told her, "This'll go great in your book."

The conversation began to spin about chapel designs and issues with church bells and church flowers and the reverend's pet mouse, and Gunnarson was beginning to think that things would be smooth sailing for the rest of dinner.

He was wrong.

Just as Frederick was getting up to prepare for desserts, the front door burst open and an angry (and tipsy) Nigel Consley strode in with a slight hobble. He pointed at Farragut and addressed him.

"Now I mayy be drunk tonight, Farragott," he said loudly, "but tomorrow morni'g I shalll be sober, and when I aim I will be going first think to talk to a lawyer about shoeing you and gettink back my rightful inheritants."

Farragut blinked for a second. Then he scooched his chair back and, face like stone, stared at the intruder. The only word he dropped was: "What."

"You heard me! I'm takink back what's rightfullly mine!" yelled Consley.

Gunnarson looked back at Mr. Farragut and was surprised to see the usually docile man enveloped in a bright red rage. He stood up slowly.

"Nigel, you have about three seconds to get out of my building before I make you get out."

"Oh yeah?" taunted Consley.

"One..." Farragut started counting.

"There isn't a fink you can do," laughed Consley.

"Two..."

Mrs. Farragut stood up. "Walter, please, don't do anything rash." She turned to Consley. "Please, Nigel, just leave us alone. Haven't you done enough?"

Consley's face turned ugly instantly. "Fuck you, bitch!" he shouted with force.

The world seemed to stand still for all the guests in that instant. The thunder had roared.

Then the lightning struck.

[Toz76]

Mrs. Farragut stuttered. "Why, you ungrateful little..."

Seemingly without thinking, she grabbed her wineglass and lobbed it full force towards Consley. It sailed past him and shattered against the wall, broke glass and deep red liquid staining the bare wood.

Mrs. Farragut trembled, seeming to suddenly realize what she'd done. Consley, for his part, turned and left wordlessly, his expression cold and distant.

Mr. Farragut grabbed his trembling wife by the arm and helped her sit back down.

"I don't know what came over me... I apologize for the outburst, everyone." Her husband offered her a glass of water, and her hand shook as she accepted it.

"I think we had better skip dessert for tonight," Mr. Farragut said quickly. "I will bring the dessert to your rooms in a short while. Good night, everyone."

"Mommy, who was that man?" Asked one of Mrs. Robinson's children.

"Adult business, dear, let's head back to our room now," the mother said, hurrying her children out before anything else untoward happened.

Ms. Bailey and Ms. Douglass tut-tutted as they left the room, clearly not surprised that something like this had happened.

Frederick bit a retreat to the kitchen, presumably to prepare the cake for room delivery.

Lady Goodwin shared a concerned glance with Gunnarson before she, too departed.

As Gunnarson made his way to his own room, he was ambushed by a familiar face.

"So, what do you make of that display?" Ms. Wolff asked, conspiratorially.

"I think it is none of our business," Gunnarson said curtly.

"Don't be so coy, Adolf, I overheard your phone conversation. You're just as curious about those drownings and the legal dispute as I am."

Gunnarson sighed. "Very well then. You clearly know something you think I don't. What is it?"

"Ah ah ah, not here. Who knows who could be listening?" She said. "Meet me at the lakeshore in an hour. I believe every one of our fellow dinner guests is hiding something, and you're going to help me crack it."

"Even the children?" Gunnarson quipped. "I admit I have some idle curiosity, but not so much that I am confusing reality with one of your detective novels."

"You'll be singing a different tune once I tell you what I heard in town today," Wolff said, before turning tail and heading to her own room.

Gunnarson returned to his room and sat in his armchair, mulling over the events of the dinner. About twenty minutes passed before Gunnarson heard a short knock on the door.

Mr. Farragut opened it, holding a slice of cake and looking apologetic.

"I am sorry for the display at dinner tonight, my good sir. Especially to you. You're not just a paying guest, but you've been invaluable help for dear old Frederick, and in return I fear I've failed to show you proper hospitality."

Gunnarson accepted the proffered slice. "Apology accepted. Is your wife okay?"

"She will be. Poor woman... we raised that boy like a son and he treats her like that?"

He was suddenly interrupted by a loud crash from downstairs.

[Eyes]

Farragut's face became one of consternation. "Please, god! No more of this!" He bounded out of the room as fast as he could to set upon the culprit.

Gunnarson set the cake down and also sprinted downstairs to see what the noise was from. Entering the kitchen, he found Mr. Farragut hunched over Frederick, who was splayed out in a pile of cookware scattered around him.

"Frederick!" he cried. "Come out of it, old boy! What's happened to you!"

He gave Frederick some light slaps on his cheek. The chef's eyes were closed, his mouth hanging slightly ajar. His skin was a sickly color. Gunnarson glanced at his chest for movement. He couldn't see anything.

The Swede jumped into action. "Mr. Farragut, stand aside and call the doctor immediately!"

Ms. Wolf came into the kitchen at that moment. "What on earth- Oh my god!" she cried.

Gunnarson paid no attention to her. He began the CPR technique that he'd been taught by a medic friend of his. Farragut was stuttering on the phone but managed to get the message through. Ms. Wolf watched Gunnarson with baited breath.

But nothing the Swede did could rouse Frederick from this state. He checked the chef's pulse again. Nothing.

Sweat began to visibly drip from Gunnarson's forehead. He stood up slowly as the adrenaline began to kick in. Mr. Farragut had finished the phone call and now he and Oliver Wolf were looking at Gunnarson, awaiting his next words.

Wolf asked with trepidation, "Is.... is he..."

Gunnarson swallowed down his emotions and calmly stated, "I'm afraid that... Frederick is dead."

"Dead!" cried Farragut. "From falling into his dishes??"

"No," said Gunnarson, "I'm afraid that it's worse than that. I'm no medical practitioner but all of these signs seem consistent with what I've seen in my field as corresponding with... poison."