5 The Murders at Astaire Castle Page 3

  “You’ve never been to that castle,” Jeff said. “You didn’t see what happened there.”

  The corners of Mac’s lips curled when he asked, “What happened?”

  “The Wolf Man is on the prowl!” Hector let loose with a ghoulish cackle.

  While Mac joined in, Jeff groaned and glared at all of them. Seeing that he wasn’t reading the tablet, Archie took it back to read for herself.

  “It all started in 1919,” Hector said. “Edward Spencer, your great-grandfather, had met Reginald Astaire while fighting over in Europe during World War I. They became good friends—both coming from money and all that. While in Europe, Reginald had developed affection for castles. When he came back, he determined to have one here in the states. While visiting his old war buddy here in Spencer, he decided that the top of Spencer Mountain was the perfect place to build his castle. At the time, construction was already underway for the Inn. So Edward agreed to sell the south end of the mountaintop to his pal. Reginald had an architect draw up the plans based on the design of a Scottish castle.”

  “It took seven years and over two million dollars to build,” Archie interjected. “Can you imagine how much it would cost to build that today?”

  “Astaire’s money came from railroads,” Jeff said, “plus stock market investments.”

  “When the castle was finished, Reginald and his wife Gwen, a New York socialite, moved in,” Hector said. “This was the heyday of the Roaring 20’s and Prohibition. The castle was a major showplace then—parties every night, twenty-four-seven. Then …” He paused for dramatic effect, “it happened.”

  Mac didn’t want to reveal how close he was to the edge of his seat.

  “The stock market crash of 1929,” Archie said.

  “Reginald Astaire lost everything,” Hector said.

  Archie read, “Reginald and Gwen Astaire, dressed in their party finest, stood up on top of the stone wall lining the cliff behind their castle. Looking down on the valley below, they joined hands, and jumped off the wall to their deaths on the rocks below.”

  “Deaths number one and number two,” Hector said. “Move forward twenty years. Nathan Hindman, a retired Army Colonel from World War II, buys the castle for him and his German war bride, Giselle, to spend their golden years. Now, he was not as sociable as Reginald Astaire. On the contrary, he was a complete recluse.”

  “He had been captured by the Nazis during the war and spent close to a year as a POW,” Archie read from the tablet.

  “They say Hindman was closer to his dog than people,” Hector said. “He had a beautiful white German shepherd that he had brought back from Germany.”

  “A German shepherd?” Archie melted. “Like Gnarly.”

  “This was a white German shepherd,” Jeff said. “Gnarly is a black and tan beast.”

  “Hindman’s dog’s name was Nigel,” Hector said. “I’ve seen pictures of him. He was a gorgeous animal—all white—he looked like a wolf. Hindman was heard to say Nigel was the most compassionate living creature he had encountered over in Europe.”

  “How sad,” Archie said.

  “It’s amazing how uncivilized man can become in wartime,” Mac said. “I’ve heard people who have served overseas in war say that animals can be more civilized than man in some circumstances.”

  “I believe it.” Hector nodded his head. “Anyway, Hindman had some issues moving into the castle. Giselle got lonely, of course. Hindman tried to help her, I guess, by letting her take tennis lessons from the pro here at the Inn. Then rumors started about her having an affair with the pro. Things didn’t end well.”

  Beads of sweat were forming on the hotel manager’s forehead. Jeff took out the linen kerchief that he always carried to wipe his face.

  “One afternoon,” Hector reported, “Giselle had invited the tennis pro to the castle for a private lesson. Afterwards, they sat down for a glass of iced tea on the back patio looking out across the valley. In the middle of their drink, Hindman came out with an ax and hacked them both to death. The police found them a couple of days later when the Inn reported the pro missing. Hindman had disappeared. Neither he nor his body was ever found.”

  “Those are the first two murders and the first mysterious disappearance,” Mac said.

  Hector chuckled. “You’d never guess what came out after the murders.”

  “What?”

  “Giselle Hindman was discovered to have been a Nazi spy during the war,” Hector said. “She had used her sexual talents to extract information from high-ranking U.S. officials and identified allied undercover agents. She was responsible for the execution of many American spies during the war. You wouldn’t believe the stories that came out about her. This was one cold-hearted woman. When Giselle saw that her side was losing the war, she played the poor little German girl to get an American serviceman to marry her and whisk her out of Germany.”

  “Maybe Hindman found out the truth and that’s why he killed her,” Mac said, “to avenge the deaths of his comrades during the war.”

  “That’s not all,” Hector said. “The tennis pro …”

  “What about him?”

  “Years later, it was discovered that he was a Russian spy in the new Cold War,” Hector said. “As you know, Deep Creek Lake and the Spencer Inn are hot vacation spots for big wigs from the nation’s capital. After this news was uncovered, it is believed that Giselle and the tennis pro were involved in more than a love match.”

  “What about the dog? Nigel?” Archie asked.

  “Disappeared, too.” A slow grin crossed Hector’s face. “Technically, that makes it four, not three, mysterious disappearances connected with the castle. Legend says Hindman’s spirit entered the dog, they became one and went off to live in the wild. But then, by now, Nigel would have died, wouldn’t he?”

  Archie and Mac exchanged glances.

  “What are you saying?” she asked.

  “A dog has been heard to howl late at night over on that side of the mountain,” Hector said.

  “A lot of people around Deep Creek Lake own dogs,” Mac said. “Even Gnarly howls regularly—especially when there’s a full moon over the lake.”

  Hector leaned forward in his seat. “In June 1964, a five-year-old little boy, named Ethan, wandered off from his parents’ campsite down on the lake. An all-out search was called. Campers, park service, police from Spencer, Garrett County, and even state came in to look for him. Night-time rolled around. Ethan still was not found. The temperature got down into the twenties.”

  Archie clutched Mac’s arm. “How awful.”

  Hector held their gaze. “We have bears, wild cats, snakes—there was no telling what could have happened to a little boy during the night.”

  “What happened to him?” Mac asked.

  “As soon as the sun was up the next morning, the search resumed,” Hector said. “A park ranger was driving along a trail in his jeep when he saw a white German shepherd blocking the road. He slowed down and the dog turned and ran. He drove on, went around a bend and there he was again. The same dog blocking the road. He looked right at that ranger, turned, and ran back into the woods. On a hunch, the ranger decided to follow the dog. He claims this dog kept stopping and looking over his shoulder at him, as if to see if he was following. He came to realize that the dog wanted him to follow. The dog led this ranger right to the boy, who was asleep in a pile of fallen leaves under a tree in a clearing. After making sure the boy was okay and calling it in, the ranger looked up—the white dog was gone.”

  “Nigel,” Archie said in a breathy voice.

  Hector chuckled. “Ethan told his parents and authorities that a white wolf took care of him. The wolf made the bed in the pile of leaves and kept him warm the whole night so that he wouldn’t get cold.”

  “Seriously?” Mac asked. “A ghost wolf? Na
med Nigel?”

  “Dog,” Archie corrected him. “A ghost dog. And he’s a friendly ghost dog.”

  “Nigel?” Mac chuckled. “If you’re going to have a ghost dog, can’t you give him a tougher name than Nigel? What kind of name is that for a legendary ghost dog?”

  “Hey,” Hector said, “I didn’t name him. The dog had that name before he became a ghost.”

  “Well, I’m just saying that if I had the name of Nigel—” Mac said.

  “What’s wrong with the name Nigel?” Archie asked.

  “It makes me think this ghost should be wearing a pocket protector, glasses, and haunting the library in Oakland.”

  “I’m just saying what has been reported.” Hector shrugged his shoulders with a shake of his head. “That’s not the only case of a white dog or wolf, depending on who you ask, who has disappeared into thin air before their eyes.”

  “Are they sure it’s not Gnarly?” Mac asked with a grin. “When this dog disappeared, did their beef jerky disappear with him?”

  Hector and Archie joined in his laughter.

  “Do we really have to do this?” Jeff asked with a choked voice. He glanced around to see if any of the Inn’s guests were listening.

  “I’m sensing a theme here,” Mac said. “This young man who disappeared from the party was dressed as a werewolf, and this dog that disappeared and turned into a ghost is a German shepherd—”

  “German Shepherds are said to have some wolf in their genes,” Archie said.

  “It’s been speculated that this young man who had disappeared was possessed by Nigel’s spirit,” Jeff said.

  “Because he was wearing a werewolf costume,” Mac laughed.

  “I really think that this isn’t the time or the place to be telling Mac about all this,” Jeff said in a hushed voice.

  A grin crossed Hector’s face. “Oh, but we’re getting to the best part.”

  Led by Iman, the chief chef at the Inn, two servers carried in trays filled with Mac and Archie’s dinners. A tubby Indonesian man, Iman almost climbed over Mac to take Archie’s hand and kiss it. In his tall white chef’s hat, and double-breasted white jacket, his position as the chief chef was evident. Those customers who hadn’t noticed his entrance into the lounge, with the flair of his clothes and manner, now noticed when he announced in a loud voice filled with his thick accent:

  “Ah, Miss Archie, my favorite victim—I mean, customer—never afraid to try new things.” He noted Mac’s apprehensive expression.

  His eyebrows arched, Mac tried to peer through the metal covers over their plates to see what Iman had prepared for them. While he was excited by Archie’s occasional order for the chef to surprise them, he was also apprehensive.

  Not long after Mac had inherited the Spencer Inn, Iman had surprised the new owner by serving him a grilled stuffed whole bluefish—complete with its head and tail still on it. When Iman removed the cover to reveal the fish, its eyes seemed to jump out of the plate to glare accusingly at Mac, who recoiled away from the plate. Unable to eat something that was looking at him, Mac had ordered the chef to remove both his and Archie’s plates from the table—even though she found it to be quite delicious.

  A jokester, Iman never let the tough former police detective forget it. The chef was not afraid to say, or do, things to Mac that drenched the Inn manager’s clothes with nervous sweat.

  “Do not fear, Mr. Mac,” Iman assured him, “no fish heads tonight. For tonight’s dinner,” he picked up a covered plate, “we have a wonderfully exciting new dish that I happen to be experimenting with, which I am sure you and Miss Archie will love. You two, Mr. Mac and Miss Archie, will be the first here at the Spencer Inn to experience this delicious delicacy.”

  Mac could feel Archie’s excitement permeating from where she sat next to him.

  When Iman grasped the cover, Mac held his breath. He was afraid to look.

  “I, Chef Iman, present to you,” He snatched off the top. “Htapothi sti Skhara - Flame-Grilled Octopus.”

  Archie gasped with delight.

  “No!” Mac almost jumped out of his seat at the sight of a plate filled with octopus tentacles, arranged in a spiral design, covered in a golden sauce.

  “Doesn’t it look delicious?” Iman brought in the plate to give him a closer look. While Mac backed away, Archie was pressing forward to see and smell it.

  “No!” Mac replied.

  “The Spencer Inn will be the only resort in the state to serve it. People will come from states away just to taste my octopus.”

  “No, no, and hell no!” Mac shouted.

  “Iman, stop it!” Jeff ordered.

  Next to Jeff, Hector was rolling with laughter at what he knew was a joke.

  With a toothy smile, Iman returned the plate to the tray. “Just a little joke, Mr. Mac. No octopus for you tonight. This is a new dish that I am trying. It is my dinner. I thought I would have a little fun at Mr. Mac’s expense.”

  Archie sighed when she saw the cover return to the plate. “What about me?”

  “If you want octopus, you’re going to have to eat it over there.” Mac pointed to a table on the other side of the lounge.

  Iman took up another plate from the tray and removed the cover for them to see an elegantly arranged dinner. “Tonight, to go with your delicate white burgundy, I have prepared a glamorous roast chicken and porcini mushrooms in a white truffle paste.” The meal was accompanied with broasted potatoes and grilled asparagus.

  The sight of the golden brown roast chicken breast made Mac sigh with pleasure and relief.

  Laughing heartily at his joke, Iman grasped Mac by the shoulder while freshening both of their wines. After giving Mac a good-natured slap on the back, Iman and the servers returned to the kitchen.

  “This chicken is a downer after seeing that octopus,” Archie whined, looking at her plate.

  “Do you want to go eat in the kitchen with Iman?” Mac asked.

  “For someone who can face killers without blinking,” she said, “you can be quite a coward when it comes to food.”

  “Allow me some comfort when it comes to what I put inside my body.” Mac picked up his fork and poked the chicken as if he feared it would attack him.

  While Jeff was horrified by the chef’s joke played on their boss, Hector couldn’t stop chuckling. “You should have seen your face when you saw that octopus.”

  “Just when I think Iman has topped himself …” Mac smiled at the prank played on him.

  Jeff brought them back to their previous topic of discussion. “Well, I strongly recommend that you forget all about that castle.”

  “I think I have a right to know about it,” Mac said, “considering that I’m paying the property taxes on it. How much property tax is there on a castle?”

  “More than on a manor house on Spencer Point,” Archie said.

  “You haven’t heard about the best part,” Hector said.

  “Only you would call it the best part.” To convey his displeasure, Jeff shifted in the seat in the booth to turn his back to the security chief sitting next to him.

  “What’s the best part?” Mac asked. “Don’t tell me. The gateway to hell is in the basement?”

  While Archie and Hector laughed at the quip, Jeff grumbled.

  “Have you ever heard of Damian Wagner?” Hector asked Mac.

  “Who hasn’t?” Mac replied. “I’ve read all of his books.”

  “You’ve read all of Damian Wagner’s books but not your mother’s?” Almost dropping her fork, Archie shot a glare at him from where he was sitting next to her.

  “I’ve been reading Damian Wagner since I was in high school,” Mac said. “Robin wrote mysteries. Damian Wagner’s books are really scary horror masterpieces—keep you up all night, unable to sleep, type of scary. R
eally bizarre.”

  “Like the author himself,” Jeff said.

  “Then you know Damian Wagner did not end well,” Hector told Mac.

  “He disappeared,” Mac said. “I seem to recall—”

  “His daughter and editor were killed—hacked to death, dismembered, and set on fire,” Hector said in a sullen tone. “Damian Wagner disappeared. Some say the killer, or the Wolf Man, got him. But his body was never found. Others say he did it himself and is living abroad under another identity. No one knows. Thing is, he spent four months living at the Astaire Castle, which Robin had bought for a song.”

  “She felt sorry for him,” Jeff said.

  “Why would Robin feel sorry for such a big name as Damian Wagner?” Mac asked.

  “Damian Wagner had written over two dozen books,” Hector said, “all big, best sellers going straight to the New York Times list and blockbuster movies. Besides being a big time author with a huge following, he was also a drunk and heavy into drugs. In 1990, he got into a car accident. His wife was killed. His daughter was in the back seat, but not badly hurt. Damian was driving drunk. His wife’s family sued for custody of the daughter. He gave her up and they took her to Canada. That was where her mother’s family was from. Damian went into rehab and got sober.” He added in a sad note, “Only problem was, he couldn’t write while sober.”

  Mac recalled, “That’s right. His main character, Hagar, hunted all of these creatures, zombies and aliens and werewolves and vampires. But he was after this one alpha werewolf, Santos, who had turned Hagar’s sister into a werewolf, forcing Hagar to kill her.”

  “The final showdown between Hagar and Santos was to be his last book,” Hector said, “but Damian couldn’t write it and was about to lose his contract with his publisher. He had the general outline done when he was in the car accident, but—After he had spent ten years with writer’s block, Robin thought that if he had the right setting, the castle, that he might be inspired to write it. So she offered to let him stay there during the summer of 2002.”

  Archie interrupted, “You said his daughter was murdered?”