Justvisible, directly west of the house, Crockett saw, what appeared to be, a tomb.It was made of dark green marble and far larger than any he had ever seen. Theheavy metal doors looked as if they led into a large underground cellar.
“AwwwGOOST?”he asked their host. “Is that the tomb over there?”
“It’sAugüst, but yes. That is where wewill lay the remains, or, more appropriately, the imaginary remains of our dearpatriarch.” His mustache made an erratic, almost angry movement. “It hasn’tbeen opened for years, since the death of his first wife, Lucinda.”
Petrarch’seyebrows rose. “That long? How very interesting.” He looked to his suitcase, asif gathering his thoughts, then continued, “It seems that your family has beenthe center of a number of shocking tragedies through the years.”
“Well,”August boomed, “not my family. My wife’s. My family is perfectly normal,and no one has died under mysterious circumstances for generations.”
“Youmust be very proud,” Crockett said.
“Weare! It’s on our family crest—Winterbourne,we die naturally, naturally.” August’s mustache emphatically punctuatedthis with a side-to-side jaunty dance.
Nearerthe house, Crockett was able to see beyond the tomb to the ripple of theTiddlymouth, which ran behind the dilapidated mansion. It was brown and greasy,an unsettling, disgusting ribbon cutting through the countryside. He felt anodd sensation looking to the house’s east and west sides—the river seemingly ranthrough the mansion, as if the crumbling home was a broken heart and the river aquivering artery.
Crockettcontemplated the ramshackle, disconcerting nature of their residence and itsriver as they arrived at the front door. August leaned forward to open it,however the great wooden portal flew open on its own accord just as his handlifted to push it. Not expecting the door handle to disappear, August toppledforward sprawling into the entry foyer.
Crockettwas relieved to see that the door had not opened by magic but rather by thehand of the homely housekeeper, Martha Smith. Homely is perhaps generous, asthe older woman could have been a relative of Victor Hugo’s beloved hunchback.She was stooped low, wearing a blue and white striped dress and apron. Her hairskewed in an innumerable number of directions—had someone divulged that she hadbeen hit by a lightning bolt that afternoon, it would have been more probablethan her hair naturally falling in the way it did. The most shocking part ofher appearance, however, was the bulging left eye, the iris of which appearedto spin slowly with the reliability of a clock.
“Ehhh,”the woman said, assessing the two men with disdain. She took just a moment, heriris doing one full rotation around her eye, before turning her back to themand trudging out of the foyer.
Crockettwatched her amble away then threw his gaze on August whose mustache wastwitching fitfully.
“Iseveryone here fit for a Shakespeare play?” Crockett asked Petrarch in astrained whisper. “We have Richard II as the maid and a man in women's clothingas the groundskeeper…” But he was unable to finish his assessment, as thegreat, looming frame of the house’s matriarch appeared on the stairs.
Todescribe her as dripping with jewels was an understatement—it was a deluge ofglittering white diamonds which hung from her neck and wrist, and danced alonggolden threads in her high, white hair. Her face was pleasant, wrinkled, andwhite as freshly floured dough, the red slice of her lips a garish stroke inher alabaster countenance.
“Hellooo!”she called down to them. “Hellooo, Petraaarch!”
Melodramaticwas the only way to describe her approach toward them. She waved slowly as herstockinged feet gently stepped down the large, twisting staircase. The motionwas slow, painfully so. Crockett wondered if there was perhaps something wrongwith her knees, the steps were so tiny, so deliberate, so theatrical. As shecame toward them, no one moved. It was as if all gathered were sucked into thevortex of her entrance—the momentum of the morning impossible to accelerateuntil Corinthiana was present. The only lively thing about her entrance was thesmall bowl she kept cradled in her left hand, the contents, her beloved fishBeatrice, swimming happily in a small circle; her right hand deliberately andgrandiosely waved back and forth in slow time like a half-broken metronome.
Itwas a dozen or more minutes before she took her final step off the staircase.When she settled her feet on the tiles of the entryway, she moved forward, likea great, drunken bear, her right hand clawing for an embrace from Petrarch.
“Mydeeear! How lovely tooo seee yooou—not under theeese circumstaaances,ooobviously, but yooou know I dooo love our chaaats, Petraaarch!”
Petrarchreturned the embrace warmly. “My dear, how are you? It’s always a shock—even athis age—a drowning!”
“AWRK!”
Crockettstumbled backwards. The sound, the verbal explosion of Corinthiana’s “AWRK!”stupefied him.
“Itis terrible. TEEERRIBLE!” Great heaving sobs came from the grieving woman. Justas with the “AWRK” her vocalizations resembled that of a seal with asthma. Corinthiana'soutburst had led Beatrice to thrash slightly, her bowl throwing water to thefloor. “Ooohhh! Ooooh!”
Augustcame forward and gently lifted the fishbowl from her arms. The fish, despitehaving no capacity to register emotion, somehow looked upset. Its dead eyes appearedperturbed.
“Theconstabulary came out and had a look at the scene,” August said. “Their chiefinspector is a bit of a dolt, if you ask me. They’ve been parading up and downthe river looking for a body. Since they’ve found none, the inspector isgrasping at incoherent theories.”
“Tooobeee true,” Corinthiana wailed. “They suggested Bixby haaad beeen kidnaaappedby nefaaarious caaarnival folk.”[6]
“Whichis ridiculous, obviously.” August’s face turned red. “The carnival hasn’t beenhere in years!”
“Well,these small-town constables often prove too overzealous in theirinvestigations, I believe,” Petrarch said.
August snorted inagreement as he turned and carried Beatrice out of the room.
Itwas then that Crockett saw her.
Theyoung lady stood
