Smoke and Mirrors Read Free

isn’t your average house, boy. You don’t own a house like this. It owns you.”
    Lee’s impression of the caretaker’s weirdly rhythmic delivery was bang on. Tony snickered. A middle-aged man in rumpled clothes, scuffed work boots, and an obvious comb over, Mr. Brummel—no first name offered—had taken the caretaker clichés to heart, embracing them with all the fervor of someone about to shout, “And I’d have gotten away with it, too, if not for you meddling kids.”
    But he was right; Caulfield House was anything but average.
    Built around the turn of the last century by Creighton Caulfield, who’d made a fortune in both mining and timber, the house rested on huge blocks of pale granite with massive beams of western red cedar holding up the porch roof. Three stories high with eight bedrooms, a ballroom, a conservatory, and servants’ quarters on the third floor, it sat tucked away in Deer Lake Park at the end of a long rutted path too overgrown to be called a road. Matt, the freelance location finder CB Productions generally employed, had driven down Deer Lake Drive to have a look at Edgar House—which turned out to be far too small to accommodate the script. Following what he called a hunch, although Tony suspected he’d gotten lost—it wouldn’t be the first time—he spotted a set of ruts and followed them. Chester Bane, the CB of CB Productions, had taken one look at the digital images Matt had shot of the house he’d stumbled on at the end of the ruts, and decided it was perfect for Darkest Night.
    Although well within the boundaries of the park, Caulfield House remained privately owned and all but forgotten. Tony had no idea how CB had gotten permission to use the building, but shouting had figured prominently—shouting into the phone, shouting behind the closed door of his office, shouting into his cell as he crossed the parking lot ignoring the cars pulling out and causing two fender benders as his staff tried to avoid hitting him. Evidence suggested that CB felt volume could succeed when reason failed, and his track record seemed to support his belief.
    But the house was perfect in spite of the profanely expressed opinions of the drivers who’d had to maneuver the generator, the craft services truck, two equipment trucks, the wardrobe/makeup trailer, and the honey wagon down the rutted road close enough to be of any use. Fortunately, as CB had rented the entire house for the week, he had no compunction about having dressing rooms set up in a couple of the bedrooms. He’d only brought in the honey wagon when Mr. Brummel had informed him what it would cost to replace the elderly septic system if it broke down under the additional input.
    The huge second-floor bathroom had therefore been painted but was off-limits as far as actually using it. The painters had left the window open to help clear the fumes and Tony glanced up to see the bottom third of the sheer white curtain blowing out over the sill.
    He frowned. “Did you see that?”
    â€œThe curtain?”
    â€œNo, beyond the curtain, in the room. I thought I saw someone looking down at us.”
    Lee snorted and started walking again, stepping over a sprawling mass of plants that had spilled out of the garden onto the path. “Probably Mason sneaking a smoke by the window. He likely figures the smell of the paint’ll cover the stink.”
    It made sense, except . . .
    â€œMason’s in black,” Tony argued, hurrying to catch up. “Whoever this was, they were wearing something light.”
    â€œMaybe he took the jacket off so he wouldn’t get paint on it. Maybe that’s where he went for his earlier smoke and maybe he did a little finger painting on my ass when he got back.” One foot raised above the top step, Lee paused and shook his head. “No, I’m pretty sure I’d remember that.” Half turning, he grinned down at Tony