The Boarding House Horror

6. Trevor Brashear

"Before you ask, I didn't hear a thing. I woke up several times last night, but I turned over and went back to sleep." Trevor Brashear pursed his lips and the twin commas of mustache that grew there. His eyes drifted to the ceiling. "It wasn't silent. The house creaks. The mice scamper. An owl might be roosting in the attic."

The house creaked as he spoke, flexing in the increasing wind.

"That's good to know, but let's start at the beginning. Did you know Mr. Raptis, before?"

"Yes, actually," Brashear lowered hazel eyes to meet mine. "At a casino called the Donna Fortunata in Milan. Just in passing. He was part of the management."

"What brought you to that casino?"

"My job. I'm, well, to put it politely, I'm a sort of statistician."

"Put it impolitely."

The corners of Brashear's eyes crinkled. "I'm an oddsmaker. Casinos hire me to craft matters so that their various betting games benefit the house, in the long run."

"Why were you in Milan, specifically?"

"Horse racing. The Donna Fortunata reserved a lounge for it with a radio speaker. Race results would come in as they happened. But the betting odds at the track could change at the last minute. They wanted a formula for setting odds that wouldn't burn them." Brashear seemed almost bored, as if he recited a speech long prepared and often delivered.

"And how did you meet George Raptis?"

"Did I say I met him? I didn't really. He was just a boss at the casino. I remember his name, and his hatchet of a nose poking out of all that hair. I'm sure I was merely a hireling to him. Beneath his notice."

"So he didn't recognize you, here at the boarding house?"

"Not at all."

"Had you met his daughter?"

"No."

"Where do you live?"

Brashear's eyes grew weary and I grew aware of the hollow cavities of the eye sockets in his skull. "Monte Carlo, I suppose."

"You suppose?"

He inhaled and exhaled; a hissing glissando of suffering. "I'm a widow, Inspector. Recently so."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"I'm not sure I can go back there. That's why I am here. I'm sure you were going to ask why I was here. Well, that's the reason. I'm a tourist, seeing the sights. Or not seeing them, as the case may be." Brashear flopped a hand past his forehead. "I look, but I see Lola, instead."

After that, each time I looked at him I saw Trevor Brashear as standing within a cloud of black grief. Every breath brought in fresh fumes of despair. Each exhale fell away heavy with melancholy. I saw his colorful clothes as poles with which he propped up the sagging remnants of his normalcy. When someone would call his name, he seemed far away and it would take him a few moments to arrive back in the present. Perhaps, in the distant land of his mind's eye he felt the ghostly touch of his Lola's hand on his, and saw her face swimming untouchable in the air.

Brashear's funk was contagious. Downstairs after the interview I stopped between kitchen and common room, unwilling to start a conversation. Howling winds and black clouds had replaced the brief moments of sunshine, and Mario Costa stared out the French doors into the gathering storm, smoking. Alice Bree sat motionless at the chess set. Daria Raptis stared moodily into the fire, and Trevor Brashear joined her.

I slipped into the kitchen to find Lazar munching an apple and staring out the smaller kitchen window. He noticed me and a smile flitted across his face. "Inspector. Apples aplenty in that first cupboard, there."

"Thank you. We might be ruining a future menu item of Madame Groot's."

"Who knows?" He leaned his lean-jawed face closer to mine and lowered his voice. "But apples are better than brandy. That fool Mario will drink the whole bottle tonight and have none tomorrow."

"He does seem to lack self-control." I spotted Flip's bag on the counter and rummaged for a stroopwafel. Next to the bag lay a few cigarette papers. I tapped the counter next to them. "Are these Mario's? I haven't noticed anyone else smoking."

"They're his. He's messy and forgetful. He leaves piles of ash and cigarette papers everywhere." Lazar sniffed in disdain.

The gesture seemed ... aristocratic? No, that wasn't quite it. It was officious. Like an officer inspecting the troops and finding them shoddy.

Some cigarette papers had lain in room number one. "Did George Raptis smoke?"

"No."

I stuffed part of a stroopwafel in my mouth and waved goodbye to Lazar. He saluted me with his apple and chomped another chunk out of it. His jaw muscles rippled as he chewed and his steel eyes tracked me.

I felt that stare tickle the back of my head as I meandered to the chess table. The pieces had been moved as if a game was underway, but only Alice Bree sat there. Around my chewy mouthful, I said, "Who's playing?"

"Hello, Inspector. I'm playing against myself. It's slightly more exciting than twiddling my thumbs, but only just."

"I see!" I studied the pattern of pieces and the game took shape in my mind. The game was early, perhaps six rounds in. One knight apiece had been captured, and black seemed short a pawn. I had never before seen such a game. "Gracious, what has white done?"

"White just took a pawn with a pawn. White's being a troublemaker. I take it that you play chess?"

"Oh, yes. I love the game. I haven't played in years. Was it the English opening?"

"Yes, though I didn't know which color was which until you spoke. Take over black. Honestly, I suspect white's been too cheeky and should be made to pay for it."

"I have interviews."

"Yes. Make a move between interviews to clear the mental palate."

I exhaled through my nose. "Well, the next move's obvious. Queen takes pawn, F6."

Her sure hand glided in slow motion to accomplish the capture. With a start, I realized that she must have the pieces and the game entirely visualized in her imagination. I almost choked on my stroopwafel.

"Good. Now, do your interview. Which of us is next?"

I glanced up. A few steps away by the fire, Daria Raptis straightened Trevor Brashear's bow tie. "Thank you," he murmured. Her lips answered with a fleeting, tremulous smile.

I swallowed sweet caramel and said, "Well, how about you, Miss Bree?"

"All right. Let me just move this knight out of hiding." The orange firelight drew highlights on her dexterous hand and wrist, but also showed a hint of mottling. Bruises?

She rose from her chair and elevated her right elbow. I took it and guided her past the kitchen. We rounded the corner. I said, "Stairs up, here."

She felt out her way with her toes. As we climbed, we passed an electric light. In the new light the blotches on her hand still resembled bruises, and I began to wonder if subtle shadings under the golden skin of her cheek and jaw might signify similar damage. "A turn to the left and more stairs."

And at the top, a sharp turn to the right into the tiny upstairs lounge. I wonder if her shapeless frock and knee-length sweater hid more bruises. She settled in a chair. The blank ovals of glass that hid her eyes stared like the statue of an owl.

But her patient voice buzzed like a warm beehive. "Inspector, I realize that this is irregular, but I won't be able to tell you any personal information."