~ The Murder Game ~

by

Linda Suzane

Gwen curled her legs under her, just as she had done as a child. The mahogany window seat shone with fresh polish and the scent of lemon oil lingered, bringing back memories of her mother. A line from her last novel, Fallen through the Crack, kept playing through her mind, something her fictional detective Adam Long had said to his partner. “Fate? There is no such thing as fate. It’s always our own choice. Sometimes we don’t like the choices we make; sometimes we don’t want to believe they are our choices, but we made them.”

What choices had led her to the Van Hise mansion on Mt. Tamalpais? To this room with its polished mahogany, overstuffed chairs, genuine Tiffany lamps and a curious mixture of Art Nouveau and ancient Chinese art?

Adam Long didn’t believe in fate, only in choices, but Gwen wasn’t sure. Was it fate that led Lawrence Van Hise to offer her ten thousand dollars to create a murder game party for his seventieth birthday? Possibly--but it had been her choice to return to Hillside Cottage, where her mother once worked as a housekeeper.

Gwen shivered slightly. The cold of the January night, which would cover everything with a coat of white frost before morning, crept into the window seat and under her peach mohair sweater, making the touch of her satin shirt icy. Maybe she had been wrong to let her curiosity get the better of her.

The mantle clock chimed the half hour. A man entered the living room and Gwen pulled back into the deep shadow of the window seat. He deposited his briefcase on a chair and headed across the spacious room to the fireplace, where he stood warming himself.

Gwen recognized him instantly. Hunter Van Hise, Lawrence’s only son. She had been ten when they moved to the mansion; he had made her life miserable, as only a thirteen-year-old boy could. When she was thirteen and he sixteen, with his first car, he had been her romantic dream, her first crush.

She sat very still, hoping not to attract his attention, wanting time to study him. The handsome boy had matured into a very handsome man. An actor might envy his dark, almost brooding face. He pulled off his overcoat, tossed it over the sofa and stood rubbing his hands in front of the fire. His dark gray wool suit was perfectly tailored, emphasizing a slender build; his full dark blond hair had obviously been styled in an expensive salon.

His pleasure at the fire’s warmth was enticing, but Gwen didn’t move. Then he turned and saw her. He took a step toward her and stopped, studying her as she had done him.

Her heart fluttered in her breast. Would he recognize her? Would he remember the little girl who cast such moon-eyes at him? What would he think of her? She had no illusions. She wasn’t a beauty. No, most people saw her as practical. That didn’t mean she wasn’t attractive, because she was, but in a down-to-earth way. Still, she knew peach was one of her colors, complimenting her dark brown hair and fair skin. Her oversize sweater, with its matching satin shirt and pants, made her look chic. The big gold earrings and gold bangles on her wrists completed the look

“You must be Gwen Wilson, the woman my father hired for his crazy scheme.” His tone cut right through her reverie.

Suddenly Gwen was ten again, in this very room, and Hunter was telling her that this was his house and if he ever caught her playing in here he would see that her mother was fired. Gwen felt her chin tremble--then she caught herself. She wasn’t ten anymore, and Hunter couldn’t bully her.

“I don’t think it’s such a crazy idea.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Anger rose inside her. “I think your father has the right to choose. It is, after all, his birthday.”

“Of course, and what my father wants, he always gets.” Gwen couldn’t miss the bitterness in Hunter’s voice.

“That’s right, boy.” Lawrence Van Hise entered the room. Gwen’s mental image superimposed itself over the real man. The rough lion of a man that she had at once idolized and feared, who even now in her memory seemed larger than life, was just an ordinary man. An old man with a shock of white hair. Despite the frailness and the white hair, Gwen saw he still possessed, undiminished, the autocratic air of power. Almost seventy, Lawrence stood upright. He commanded attention. In fact, he could even be called handsome, despite the deep lines that etched the forehead and bracketed the eyes, nose, and mouth. Not unattractive lines, but lines that spoke of experience.

Gwen rose to meet him, putting out her hand in response to his outstretched one. He introduced himself and Hunter. Before Gwen could tell him that she knew who he was because her mother had been Sylvia Moss, Lawrence turned to Hunter.

“Will you be joining us for dinner?” he asked.

“No. I’ve just enough time to change before I have to leave. A charity dinner for the San Francisco Ballet.”