Monsters Under the Bed Read online

  With loads of questions buzzing inside my head, I got out of the car. I was more than a little dazed, I admit, as I made my way to the front door. The house was relatively quiet, but when I reached the back of the house, the sitting room was filled with soft jazz. The terrace doors were open, and I could see Ford outside in the back garden, by the flowerbed, digging happily away, humming along and swaying a bit to the music.

  To me, he looked divine. Always had.

  Did I seriously suspect he might have had something to do with Mo Chance’s untimely demise? No, I didn’t. But questions were raised by this curious coincidence.

  “Hey, babe,” I called out.

  Ford practically jumped out of his skin, his broad chest heaving as he turned to look at me. “Fuck, Sam. You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Sorry.” I sauntered over, looking at the flowers he had planted. I couldn’t identify them, as I had zero knowledge of botany, but the specks of color made me happy for some reason. Ford loved flowers and animals, so he couldn’t be a villain, could he? “Looks great.”

  “Really?” Ford beamed, pleased I had noticed the fruits of his hard labor. “What brings you back so early? I thought you’d be gone all day.”

  “You busy?”

  Ford checked his wristwatch. “I have a garden consultation at four thirty, so not yet. Free as a bird. What’s up?”

  I hedged. “Have you been following this Chance business on the news?”

  Ford touched my thigh, squeezing gently, reassuringly. “It’s a big case. You know, if you were on the case, no one would have anything to worry about. You’re the best. If there’s something fishy going on anywhere, you always figure it out.”

  His compliment felt super sweet, and I hated that I had doubts about him in my head. “What do you think happened to him?”

  Ford’s eyes widened. “Mo Chance?” I don’t know why he seemed so surprised. Was it because I’d asked about Mo or because I’d asked for his opinion? It’s not like we never talked about my cases. Sure, I kept particulars and details out of our conversations, but he was smart, and he had an uncanny ability to tell what people were all about. “Do I think he killed himself? No, I don’t.”

  That did throw me off a bit. “You don’t?”

  “No.” Ford’s tone was adamant, decisive. “I never told you this, but… I met him once, when I was in the hospital after the shooting. He brought me flowers and gave me his well-wishes. He seemed so very young and alone somehow, like he desperately needed someone but didn’t have anyone. He was only thirteen at the time. I was the one shot, but he was the one I felt sorry for.”

  Why had Mo been at the hospital? “How come you never told me?”

  Ford shrugged. “Guess it never came up. Why?”

  I hope I didn’t sound as pissed as I felt, for reasons I didn’t want to examine too closely. “I’m investigating the circumstances of his death, you’ve met him, and you didn’t bother telling me.”

  Ford straightened up, and he was getting angry too. “When you left this morning, you didn’t tell me it was his death you were investigating. Don’t bite my head off.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I knelt down next to him while he remained on his knees, and I kissed him lightly on the lips. He didn’t respond. “I’m sorry, Ford. It’s just that….” I couldn’t tell him he was inheriting from Mo Chance. The contents of the will weren’t on public record yet and were not accessible even to the heirs themselves at this juncture.

  Ford’s face softened. “Jeez, Sam. You haven’t been on the case for a single whole day, and you’re already in full-out panic mode? How uncharacteristic of you.”

  Trying to defuse the situation, I said, “Maybe I just missed you.”

  Now Ford was definitely pleased, and he preened a little but tried to downplay it. “You just saw me this morning. And did we or did we not have some one-on-one time in the shower?”

  I played dumb. “Did we? I forget. Maybe we should do a refresher course.”

  Ford freaking snickered. “Now?”

  “Uh-huh,” I replied in the affirmative.

  By way of the shower, we found ourselves back in our bed. It wasn’t even noon yet, and here I was, slacking off from the case to have a private assignation with my significant other.

  But when Ford pushed me down on the bed and swallowed my cock whole, I honestly wouldn’t have cared if Mo Chance himself stood in the room, frowning and shaking his finger at me.

  From the start of our relationship, this was how it had been. What Ford wanted, he got. Right now, he seemed to desire a taste of my dick, so with equal enthusiasm, I let him have it. All too soon, he flipped me over onto my stomach and began a merciless onslaught over my exposed taint. His rough hands pulled my ass cheeks apart while his mouth did heavenly things to me.

  With efficient expertise, he prepped me, slicked his cock up, and thrust into me.

  I wanted it like this today, an almost bruising claiming. I wanted his truth inside of me. And his love and passion were undeniable truths to me. I would never doubt them.

  At first, Ford thrust into me leisurely, taking his time, yanking me up by my hips until I was on my hands and knees with my face buried in the sheets. But then, after a while, he shoved me back down on the mattress with his hand on my upper back, and his weight came down on me, and then he was really pounding the shit out of me.

  And I loved it. Anal sex wasn’t something I had always enjoyed. I don’t know why it was different with him, considering the basic act hadn’t changed. I could only attribute my feelings for him as the cause.

  Ford bit my neck below the ear, hard enough to leave a mark. It would show over my collar.

  I snaked my hand underneath me to fist my cock, and I started stroking as fast and hard as I could. But then Ford inched his hand onto my dick, too, and took over, and I was forced to yield to his mastery over me and my body.

  He felt like an animal today, but then again, so did I. It was pure sexual gratification, a need roaring through our veins, pumping inside our hearts and groins.

  Our climax, mutual by a few seconds difference, reflected that. I came so hard I must have passed out for a split second. When Ford stilled and groaned loudly, his cock buried deep, I felt his wet heat spilling inside of me, filling me like an overflowing cup.

  As we came down together, he slipped out of me and onto his side next to me with a thud. Grinning, he brushed my sweaty hair out of my eyes. “Great as always, Sam. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Ford.” I closed my eyes, relaxing, intent on taking a wee nap.

  But Ford shoved me on the shoulder brusquely while laughing. “Get up, lazy. You’ve got work to do. But shower first. No need to upset the clientele with smells of sex.”

  Cursing my protesting, popping joints, I made my way back to the job at hand.

  Journal Entry 5, the Chance Case:

  At the Manor

  MY FIRST stop after a quick washup and change of clothes was Mo Chance’s manor house in Sea Cliff, one of the most luxurious neighborhoods in San Francisco, known for its vast ocean views and large, opulent estates. It didn’t surprise me his property was situated there, but it did surprise me to actually see it in person.

  After a lush, scenic drive up into the hills, I found myself at the address Mr. Niedermayer had given me. I was ready to encounter cops and press there, right along with nosy busybodies and crime buffs. But the place was vacant and looked practically devoid of all signs of life.

  The wooden structure with two imposing conical towers on each wing reminded me of old-fashioned horror movies, reminiscent of a Gothic castle à la Dracula. Despite the noon sunshine, I shivered at the unnerving vibe running up and down my spine. If the building had once had a colorful paint job, it was long gone now. The house appeared gray and lifeless, and the half-dead vines growing everywhere only enhanced the dead ambience. San Fran had a lot of old wooden buildings that had been conserved, but I hadn’t expected one out here. Hu
ge oak trees framed the manor house, but even they looked inanimate and barren, their skeletal limbs reaching for the house itself.

  I suppressed another shudder and made my way to the front door.

  After I’d rung the bell—with a cord, no less—it took a while for anyone to answer. When the door finally opened, I saw an incredibly tall and awfully thin man standing in the foyer. He was dressed in an immaculate dark suit. He had a thin white moustache and a remarkably thick head of white hair. Yet his skin belied the illusion of old age as he could not have been older than forty. Or was he perhaps a well-groomed fifty or even a very well-preserved sixty? Surely not…? Maybe?

  “Yes?” he asked. I was reminded of Lurch from The Addams Family as I took in his appearance.

  “My name is Sam Garrett,” I said, offering him my calling card. “I’m here to see Cecil Chance.”

  “Mr. Garrett, yes. Mr. Niedermayer has kindly informed the family in advance of your arrival. Come in, please.” His voice was deep and slow but extremely polite. I wondered what it would take for a man like this to raise his voice or show any undue emotion.

  He stepped aside, and I walked in.

  The hall, like all the rooms I could see, was dim, with dust flecks floating about. The chandeliers and wall lamps, as well as most of the furniture, had been covered with white sheets. Were they moving stuff out already? That was illegal, so perhaps this was for the mourning period. I was annoyed at being too late for the party, so to speak, since it would have helped to see the house as it was when Mo had lived here. Funny, since that was only a few days ago.

  “Mr. Chance is in the study. Follow me, please.”

  The butler sauntered deeper into the bowels of the grim abode, and I traced his steps.

  “Are you Norbert Parkinson?” I asked.

  “Indeed, sir. Almost everyone calls me Parkinson.” I could definitely see why the lawyer had dubbed this man stiff as a pole. His British accent came through loud and clear, posh and high-class. I was curious as to his credentials and salary.

  “Have you worked for the Chance family long?”

  “I began my employ with the family while the parents were still alive. Close to twenty years now.” Was it my imagination or did he sound rueful? Perhaps there was emotional depth to this man after all, underneath the starch.

  “What was Mo like?”

  Parkinson stopped and glanced at me suspiciously. “With all due respect, sir, I will let Mr. Chance tell you all about the young sir.” His icy tone indicated there was little-to-no esteem in store for me, the intruder into the household. He resumed his walk, and I fell silent.

  At a sturdy, closed oaken door, Parkinson waved a hand to suggest which way I was to go while he walked off without so much as a word. I shrugged, indifferent. I would have plenty of time to try my luck with him after I had spoken with Uncle Cecil.

  I knocked on the door.

  “Come” came the sharp reply.

  I opened the door and walked right in. The air smelled of varnish, leather, and dust. The study walls were covered from floor to ceiling with filled-to-the-brim bookshelves. Four cozy, stuffed lounge chairs were placed at precise intervals, and low lights shone from the lamps by the tiny round reading tables. The main desk was situated in front of the high, arched, stained-glass windows that gave the room a churchy feel.

  Behind the desk sat a slim man, who was reading a book and taking notes. He had on a white dress shirt, a dark-brown vest, and a light-brown silk tie, and his overall look was prim and proper, almost old-fashioned, an impression further accentuated by the round spectacles he wore. His short dark-blond hair came down in curls, framing his delicate features, and he seemed younger than he was—assuming he was Cecil Chance.

  “Mr. Chance?” I asked relatively courteously.

  He waved an impatient hand toward the chair in front of the desk while he made an annoyed sound deep in his throat. I sat down quietly, since I could afford to be patient. After a few minutes, he looked up at me, confused to see someone there. Maybe he had forgotten. He readjusted his spectacles and gave me a definite once-over, though there was nothing sexual about it.

  “Mr. Garrett, I presume?” His stark tone suggested he wasn’t pleased to see me.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Cecil Chance.” He stood up and offered his hand, delicate and small. I rose and shook it. His handshake was feeble and lukewarm. Thankfully, it didn’t last. “You are here to see the house, is that right?”

  “Among other things.”

  Cecil harrumphed, not happy about my vague answer. “Mr. Niedermayer warned us to expect you. Would you like to see the house now?”

  “I have a few questions for you first, Mr. Chance, if I may.”

  With a loud sigh, probably intended to convey his displeasure over the situation, Cecil sat back down, and so did I. “Yes?”

  I found his abrupt phrasing impolite, but I had formed no personal opinion of him yet, so I wasn’t offended by him. Most people were wary of private investigators, and it meant nothing. “Are you aware of the contents of Mo’s will?” Best to dive right into the deep end.

  Cecil rolled his eyes. “I am his only living blood relative, so I would assume he has left the bulk of the estate to me. But do I know? No, I do not.” His habit of enunciating some words too clearly irritated my ear but not my sensibilities. Everyone had their quirks.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Chance?” I took out my notebook, tapping the pen on the paper as I waited for him to reply.

  “I’m an accountant, if you must know.” His tone was a little hoity-toity.

  “For the toy company?”

  “I have several clients.”

  “How long have you lived here in the manor with Mo?”

  “Nine years.” He stopped abruptly, so there was a story there, but I held off.

  “Are you married? Do you have children?”

  “No and no.” He lifted his chin in a snobbish manner but then lowered it just as fast. He frowned and then appeared melancholy. “Just seeing how Mo and Haydn used to live here…. No, I couldn’t in good conscience bring a child into this world.”

  “Haydn?”

  Cecil looked shocked, and he gasped. “You don’t know about Haydn? Good gracious, you are out of your depth here, Mr. Garrett.” I resented the implication but let it slide. “Haydn was Mo’s twin brother.” He frowned with obvious disapproval and straightened up. “I would rather not discuss this any longer. If you have no other questions….” He let his voice trail off as he started to get up. I’d attack this topic at another time.

  “What was your precise relationship with Mo?”

  Cecil plopped back down and made another loud, long-suffering sigh. “I am—I was his paternal uncle. His father was my brother. He is dead now, of course.”

  “What happened?”

  “A car accident. Mo and Haydn’s mother, Adriana, and father, Norman, died in the crash. How it happened? I believe it was an unfortunate mix of too much wine and bad weather. The two of them had been out on the town, celebrating their anniversary four days late, and they had both consumed wine at dinner. A storm had been brewing all day. As they drove home, the car slid on the wet pavement of Lincoln Boulevard, crashed through the railing, and rammed into a tree. Sad, and so needless. I moved here right away to be with the children in their hour of need.” Cecil shook his head in a theatrical way I found a little weird. But the accident at least explained his nine-year presence in the household.

  “How old were the children?”

  “Nine. Two years before Mo created his toy company. He was a prodigy, you know. I think he focused on creating toys, aspects of childhood, specifically because of the sudden loss of his parents. I’m no psychologist, of course, but it makes sense.”

  It was reasonable, but it was also too early to draw any conclusions. After all, for all I knew at the moment, it could still have been a suicide. “What can you tell me about Mo?”

  “Tell you?”
Cecil sighed, the noise weary. “I think I had better show you instead.”

  With that remark, he got up, rounded the table, and headed for the door. He didn’t look back to see if I was following. I was.

  Without speaking, he led me to a large, open staircase that led to the second floor. Our footsteps were silenced by the red velvet rug covering them, and the ornate carvings on the wooden railings were smooth as silk. Expensive paintings by old masters hung on the walls, and priceless antique vases held compositions of wax flowers. The high-class manor looked and felt ancient.

  But that impression carried only as long as it took to reach a hallway at the back of the building. The long, narrow hallway had a distinct air of lack of maintenance. The gray, muted tones of the silk wallpaper showed its age as its edges were crumpled, and there was no carpet covering the wooden floor, which was smudged with scratches and tiny holes. Even the overhead lights flickered uncertainly and coldly. Now the impression was of decrepitude and Gothic horror.

  I shivered.

  “This is Mo’s playroom.” Cecil pointed at the gray door at the end of the hallway. I suddenly felt claustrophobic, as if the walls were closing in on me. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling at all, and I just knew bad things had happened here. I didn’t know what they were; I only sensed an ominous, heavy weight in the air, preceding and lingering after past, unnamed events.

  I turned the knob and pushed the door open until it hit the wall, hinges creaking.

  “He was a… a disturbed boy.”

  Cecil Chance’s words were the understatement of the century.

  That I had no trouble discerning as I stepped over the threshold into the so-called playroom. I would have called it an insane asylum—or the first circle of hell. Or was it the seventh?

  Toys scattered across the wooden floor, polished till it gleamed, only accentuated the fact that everything was covered in dust. Wooden shutters were barely open, letting in slivers of light. The air was stale, dust particles floating everywhere. A battered old couch stood at the back of the room, the dark-red fabric chafed and faded in places. Both the left and the right walls were covered with bookshelves, and the shelves were stacked with books. Only a handful were children’s books, while the rest were scientific studies and academic treatises, yellowing on the visible edges of the pages, with smudges of fingerprints and colorful Post-its attached as notations.