Gone Guest: The Murder Mystery Book Club 6

Gone Guest

The Murder Mystery Book Club 6

C.A. Larmer

LARMER MEDIA

Gone Guest © 2023 Larmer Media

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Discover more by C.A. Larmer:

The Murder Mystery Book Club

The Murder Mystery Book Club (Book 1)

Danger On the SS Orient (Book 2)

Death Under the Stars (Book 3)

When There Were 9 (Book 4)

The Widow on the Honeymoon Cruise (Book 5)

Ghostwriter Mysteries:

Killer Twist (Book 1)

A Plot to Die For (Book 2)

Last Writes (Book 3)

Dying Words (Book 4)

Words Can Kill (Book 5)

A Note Before Dying (Book 6)

Without a Word (Book 7)

Posthumous Mysteries:

Do Not Go Gentle

Do Not Go Alone

Sleuths of Last Resort:

Blind Men Don’t Dial Zero

Smart Girls Don’t Trust Strangers

Good Girls Don’t Drink Vodka

Plus:

After the Ferry: A Gripping Psychological Novel

An Island Lost

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License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this work has been generated using Artificial Intelligence (AI).

Published by Larmer Media, NSW 2482, Australia

E-book ISBN: 978-0-6459449-0-7

Cover design by Nimo Pyle

Cover photography by Lisa-Blue (main), HunterBliss (book) @ iStock

Edited by D.A. Sarac, The Editing Pen

& Elaine Rivers, with thanks

~

For Jan Boug

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Table of Contents

Cast of Characters

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Connect online

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Cast of Characters

The Murder Mystery Book Club & Friends:

Alicia Finlay (club founder/journalist)

Lynette Finlay (her sister/chef)

Claire Hargreaves (vintage-store owner)

Perry Gordon (palaeontologist)

Missy Corner (librarian)

Queenie Dobson (executive assistant)

Veronica ‘Ronnie’ Westera (wealthy philanthropist)

Detective Inspector Liam Jackson (Alicia’s beau)

Simon Barrier (Claire’s husband and Queenie’s boss)

Max (the Finlays’ Labrador)

The Westera/Jones Family & Staff:

Bertram ‘Bert’ Westera (deceased)

Ronnie Westera, née Jones (Bert’s widow)

Bridget ‘Biddy’ Westera (Bert’s younger sister)

Jeanie (Bert’s older sister, deceased)

Bethany Westera (Jeanie’s daughter)

Bronson Westera (Jeanie’s son)

Lizzie Jones (Ronnie’s sister, deceased)

Seamus Jones (Lizzie’s son)

Sebastian Jones (Lizzie’s son)

Peter Ragnar (Westeraview security guard)

Rosa (Ronnie’s housekeeper)

Notable House Guests:

Greta Granger (Sebastian’s/Seamus’s girlfriend)

Peg Flannery (Ronnie’s school friend)

Hugh McMertle (CEO of Westera Holdings)

Hannah McMertle (his wife)

Craig Samson (Ancestry & More)

Investigating Police:

Detective Inspector Indira Singh

Detective Sergeant Paul ‘Pauly’ Moore

Detective Sergeant Jarrod Mallee

Senior Constable Zion Goldstein

Constable Eva Sanchez

Probationary Constable Luke ‘Marko’ Markovic

Constable Sam Smith

Frank Scelosi (forensic pathologist)

Miles Henryhan (Chief of Ballistics)

Prologue

Sebastian’s mood was souring faster than his Aunty Ronnie’s devilled eggs, his patience close to curdling.

Where the bloody hell was Seamus?

This was not how he wanted to spend Ronnie’s seventy-fifth birthday party, hanging like a limp racquet in the middle of a brightly lit tennis court, the autumn breeze beginning to bite, its teeth sharpened by the nearby ocean.

Fancy a game? said Greta, mimicking an ace.

He tried to smile, but his heart was not in it. Come on, let’s head back.

She hesitated, pulling her green Manhattan jacket tighter. Sounded important though. What do you think’s so urgent he needs to discuss it now?

No idea. Then, Probably you.

She flinched. I’ve made my choice. You know that; your brother does too.

Sebastian shrugged. It wasn’t all Seamus knew. It could very well be about the family tree—what a can of worms he’d opened there. Why had he wielded that blasted can opener in the first place? How foolish, how delusional…

You okay?

He glanced back at her. Course. Stared at his watch.

Nervous about your speech?

Nervous I won’t get back in time.

Her own eyes slid away. Are you really going to… you know?

He glanced up and towards the far-off burble of music and laughter and his Aunty Ronnie’s guests having a grand old time. Perhaps he’d read that wrong too. What was he trying to achieve exactly?

Maybe it wasn’t the time and the place.

Stepping across to him, she brushed his arm. You know we’re gonna be okay, right? Despite everything.

Then she smiled and he couldn’t help smiling back. She’d always brought out the good side in him, even after Seamus—

A distant whistle broke through his thoughts, and then a sudden explosion, and they both looked up to see fireworks illuminate the dark night sky.

It’s beautiful, she said.

So are you, he replied, staring back at her long and hard, the vision splendid in green.

"Sebastian…" Her voice held a note of warning.

I know. He reached out his hand. Dance with me. One last time.

She dropped her long flaxen locks to one side. It needn’t be the last.

But who was she kidding? He knew this was the end; there was no other option. And so he smiled bitterly as he grabbed her and twirled her, reaching into his velvet tuxedo just as a final explosion brought their dancing to a halt and blood splattering across the court.

Chapter 1 ~ Five Days Earlier…

The Murder Mystery Book Club nearly came to blows at its Sunday meeting. And if it wasn’t for the soothing tea (Lemon Mint Ménage) and Alicia Finlay’s sensibility (she could broker a peace deal in the Middle East, that girl), they just might have.

It was the end of their fortnightly get-together. They’d spent the past three hours discussing the last of the P. D. James mysteries in young Queenie Dobson’s sparsely furnished rental apartment when the chatter turned to the next author on the list.

They wanted someone more modern, that was a given, but could not decide between the best-selling author of Gone Girl, Gillian Flynn, and fresh British writer Lucy Foley, who had a smash hit with The Guest List.

"Oh, I’ve already read The Guest List, said Veronica Westera, brushing the crumbs of a ready-made mud cake from her pleated skirt. Wasn’t my cup of tea at all."

"Really, Ronnie? I heard it was brilliant, gushed Missy Corner, her cherry-red ringlets bobbing about as she spoke. Sort of like Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None, apparently, all set on some isolated island with a madman on the loose."

It’s a poor man’s version of that book, weighed in Perry Gordon. "I’m with Ronnie. Let’s do Gone Girl. It’s totally unique."

"Uniquely creepy, said Claire Hargreaves, feline eyes widening. I thought we agreed no creepy books. And that ending left a lot to be desired."

But it was such a good twist, said Queenie, her rigid brown bob the antithesis of Missy’s corkscrew curls.

It was positively lazy, countered Claire. I mean, where was the justice? I really wanted the killer to—

Suck it up, buttercup, said Perry. Not everything is wrapped up in neat little bows like that top of yours. It’s stunning by the way.

Well thank you. Claire beamed. My mother just sent it across from Paris. It’s vintage Chanel. Her smile deflated. "But murder mysteries should be neatly wrapped up, Perry. It’s their raison d’être. Order is restored; it’s one of the tenets. Don’t you agree, Alicia?"

The book club founder rubbed a hand through her shaggy blond locks. Yes, she did agree. Her imagination was dark enough without having murder mysteries left unresolved, but that wasn’t what was bothering her now. It sounds like half of you have already read both books, so maybe we should choose something else entirely. Anyone got any other suggestions?

"Let’s not start that again," groaned her sister, Lynette, stretching her long, tanned legs out in front of her.

Ronnie agreed, pulling back the sleeve of her drab cream cardigan to reveal a diamond-encrusted Cartier watch. I’ve got to meet my bossy niece in twenty minutes.

How about this then? suggested Alicia. What if we do both books simultaneously? A kind of compare and contrast between the books and their authors. Judging from this banter, it’ll be a lively one.

While the others considered that option, Ronnie was gathering her things. I think that idea is just dandy. It’s a good thing I’ve read both books, because I’ve got so much on my plate at the minute, what with my birthday coming up and Bethany making such a hullabaloo. Then she sighed almost wearily and added, I’m turning seventy-five, God help me.

Congratulations! squealed Missy, her enthusiasm almost sending her zebra-print spectacles flying.

Ronnie shot her a dark look. Only a twenty-something like you would say that. Actually… Her eyes now danced around the group. Perhaps you lot could come along, inject some fresh energy. A grimace. I know it’s terribly late notice—very rude of me, in fact—but it was supposed to be small, just family and a handful of old friends, but Bethany’s gone and turned it into a circus, ordered far too much champagne, not to mention a celebrity chef, and now half my in-laws have wriggled out of it and it’s too late to scale it back. It would be lovely if you could fill in for them. Lord knows you’d be doing me a favour.

You had me at ‘far too much champagne’, said Perry, his eyes twinkling along with his diamanté stud.

I was sold on ‘celebrity chef’, said Lynette. Who is it?

Ronnie shrugged. She wasn’t much of a foodie. We’re holding it next Friday night at my late husband’s family estate, Westeraview. It’s more a weekender these days, although Bert’s darling sister still lives there. No idea why. It’s about an hour down the coast, so a bit of a hike, but there’s bedrooms galore if you’d like to hook into the champers and sleep over.

She offered Perry a smile before her lips drooped southwards. I only agreed to all this to please the in-laws, but, as I say, half of them have deserted, so I wonder why I bothered.

What about your lovely nephews? asked Claire, straightening one of the bows on her otherwise perfect blouse. She recalled Ronnie gushing about the two lads that fiery weekend they had spent at Lyle’s Rainforest Lodge, the first time they really got to know the older lady.

Oh, Sebastian and Seamus will be there; can always count on them. As for the others… well… A shrug. She was also not one for dwelling. I realise it’s extremely bad manners to invite you so late, and if you do come, you must promise not to bring gifts, but I’d really love you to be there.

"Of course we’ll be there," said Alicia as the others nodded keenly.

And so that’s how the Murder Mystery Book Club ended their session with two murder mysteries up their sleeve and a birthday invitation that would lead to two more.

They just didn’t know it yet.

Chapter 2 ~ The Gothic Mansion

Bertram (‘Bert’) Westera had a macabre sense of humour, or at least his architect did, Alicia decided as they caught their first glimpse of Ronnie’s weekender from the winding road below.

Clumsily dubbed ‘Westeraview’ when Ronnie’s late husband built the house sixty years ago, the Gothic Revival mansion was actually facing directly east, out across the Pacific Ocean. And while it did indeed have a stunning view, perched as it was on the cliff edge, it also boasted a hundred acres of manicured lawn, landscaped gardens and dense, native forest.

But all of that paled in comparison to the house, which, from their vantage point below, looked like something from a medieval fairy tale, à la the Brothers Grimm.

"Or that house in the movie Knives Out," exclaimed Missy, who was staring goggle-eyed from the front bench seat beside Perry and Alicia.

There will be no knives out this evening, Missy, said Lynette, other than Chef Kenji’s filleting knife of course. Then she poked her sister in the driver’s seat. Get a move on. We’re going to miss Kenji’s famous sashimi at this rate.

Hold your horses, she replied, checking both rear-view mirrors. You just never knew when a run-away B-double would come careening around the corner and flatten you like a pancake. They were squished enough as it was!

The book club had all piled into Alicia’s old Holden Torana, the only car that could fit six adults, and had enjoyed the long drive down the highway south of Sydney, then through the lush hinterland and past the quaintest of rural villages. But somewhere along the way they had got hideously lost, and now Lynette’s foot was tapping. Or perhaps it had more to do with her taste buds.

Sorry, Lynny, said Missy, shrinking into her seat. My GPS must be on the blink.

Perry snorted. Oh yes, blame your equipment.

Settle down, children, said Alicia, checking over her shoulder once again before pulling back onto the road.

Fortunately, after a few more hairpin bends, they reached the official entrance to Westeraview on the lower-western side of the property, surrounded in towering Eucalypts. There was an imposing wrought-iron gate out front with an impenetrable sandstone wall on one side and an equally imposing guardhouse on the other.

Built in the same Gothic style as the mansion, the smaller dwelling had a steeply pitched roof and wide, arch-style windows through which a bald-headed chap was watching them. Before Alicia had even brought the car to a halt, the gate was swinging open and the man was stepping out, a brown cap now on his head, a wooden clipboard in his left hand. He was wearing a matching brown uniform with the name Pete embroidered across the front.

Welcome to Westeraview, folks, Peter Ragnar called out. Just need to tick your names off and we’ll get you up to the house.

Oooh, said Perry, grinning at the stocky sixty-something. There’s a door bitch with a guest list. How cosmopolitan.

The guard stared at him, unamused, as he pulled a pen from behind one ear, then proceeded to read from his clipboard. Rightio, you must be Alicia… Lynette… Missy… Claire… Queenie, is it? And Peppy.

There were howls of laughter from the back seat, and Perry said, "It’s Perry. Perrrrrry."

The guard ignored that and ticked the names off swiftly, then pointed his pen up the driveway.

Follow the bollard lighting all the way round the bend and keep going, he told Alicia. Stick to the main road. It veers off in several directions, but take no turns or you’ll get lost. Got it? She nodded. Once you get to the top of the driveway, go past the guest house and on to the main house. Can’t miss it. Guest parking is just past the front entrance. It’s clearly sign posted. Please don’t park in front of the garage. His tone spoke of many disobedient guests. Once you’ve done that, make your way back on foot to the entrance where you’ll be met at the door.

He glanced at his clipboard again. I believe you’re being accommodated for the night? In that case, be sure to take your luggage with you. Then a look of reproach. You guys are the last to arrive, so don’t dawdle. Head straight up.

Yes, sir! Perry replied, giving a small salute while Lynette tsked from the back.

"You are incorrigible, Peppy, she said as her sister continued through the open gate and up the steep, paved driveway. Try to behave tonight. It’s a big deal for Ronnie."

At least I’m here, he retorted, which is more than I can say for half her rellies.

I wonder why so many ‘wriggled out of it’, said Queenie.

More fool them, said Claire, ogling the view from her side-door window. Did you see that fabulous court back there? Dreamy. I wish I’d brought my tennis whites.

She sighed some more as they rounded the last bend, passed a small dwelling that was barely visible through the trees, and finally reached the grand mansion. It was even more impressive up close, and breathtakingly large, like the guardhouse on steroids.

Built in true Gothic style with steep gabled roofs and pointed arches for doors, it boasted twenty rooms across two levels and a thousand square metres, the east wing almost reaching out to the cliff face. There was a garish fountain out the front and a six-car garage on the southern side, with guest parking next to that. And that’s where Alicia finally brought the car to a stop.

Good thing I gave the Torana a wash before we came, she said as she ogled the luxury vehicles around her.

Oh yeah, said Perry, clambering out behind Missy. "A bit of dust is the only difference between this hunk-a-junk and all these Jags and Porsches and oh my God is that a Lamborghini?"

A Lamborghini Urus, said Queenie. "They finally brought out a decent SUV. It’s much sleeker than the Rambo Lambo, but honestly, if you’re going to splurge on a Lambo, why an SUV…?"

Her voice trailed away as she realised they were now ogling her.

Never would’ve picked you for a revhead, said Lynette.

I see a lot of nice cars in my line of business, she mumbled.

Queenie’s business was really Claire’s husband’s business, LLE—a luxury hospitality development company where Queenie worked as Simon Barrier’s executive assistant.

Is that right? said Perry, snatching up his Louis Vuitton duffle bag from the boot. What do you drive then?

Oh, I don’t have a car. No time for road trips.

That’s depressing, he replied.

So’s this, said Lynette as they strode back towards the front of the mansion (which was really the back of the house, the side without that stunning, easterly view).

One of the tall arched doors was now propped open, and they could see straight into a shadowy, candlelit foyer. It was like peeking into the great hall of a Tudor castle with its dark timber flooring and high decorative ceiling. The thick stone walls were covered in woven tapestries, pretentious oil paintings, and a dozen faux candelabra.

It is a bit creepy, agreed Missy.

"I love it," gushed Claire, clapping her hands together.

You’re late, snapped the woman who had opened the door.

She was almost as imposing as the house—tall and angular, her sharp hips poking out from a full-length, black satin dress, which matched her tightly cropped black hair and the dark look she was now offering them. Her cheeks were equally sharp, her lips the only plump thing about her, heavily glossed and clearly Botoxed, much like her forehead, which would’ve been frowning if it had been given half a chance.

We’re so sorry, said Alicia, stepping forward. We’re—

I know who you are. The book club, yes? Before they could respond, the fifty-something had turned and began gliding across the floor as if she were skating. I’m Bethany Westera, Veronica’s niece, she called back to them. I hear you’re staying over. Let’s get your luggage into the study and some champers in hand. The fireworks are about to start, so there’s no time to sort out sleeping arrangements, let alone time for changing.

She turned back and gave Missy the once-over, her eyes darting across her rockabilly-style polka-dot dress with its full circle skirt and black tulle petticoat.

Missy gulped, then giggled. Oh no, I mean… this is what I’m wearing.

Bethany blinked back like she was waiting for the punchline, then gave a little shudder before turning to two waiters hovering in her shadow. She instructed one to fetch drinks from the bar outside, the other to take their luggage to the study.

No, leave it, she told Perry who had tried to help. That’s what he’s here for. Then she fluttered long, manicured fingernails and added, Party’s out on the patio. That’s where we’ve set up the bar and also our delightful chef, Kenji. He’s world-famous you know. Do take a moment to enjoy his spread. As for Veronica… She tried to frown again. She’s probably in the centre, holding court like she owns the place. Ah, here’s the Bollinger.

They looked around to see the waiter with a tray of glistening champagne flutes. As they helped themselves, Bethany said, Excuse me, I have so much to get on with. The official program’s been brought forward; it’s put me in quite a spin…

And off she trailed as she slipped across the floor and down a long corridor towards a separate wing of the house.

That’s us told off then, said Perry.

Do you think I should change? asked Missy, her face stricken.

"You look divine, Missy," said Claire, who really did look divine in another fifties-style dress but more like something Grace Kelly would wear, with a fitted black bodice and white silk taffeta skirt. They had all dragged out their best frocks for the event, and Perry his finest velvet burgundy smoking jacket, but now wondered if they were underdressed.

Through the cavernous entryway, they could see Ronnie’s guests milling about on the patio outside, bright lights overhead and the tinkling of a string quartet nearby, and most were in long shimmering gowns and tuxedos.

I wish she’d told us it was formal, said Missy, chewing on a fingernail.

Who needs formal when we look this fabulous? scoffed Perry. Let’s go out and dazzle.

They were just reaching the adjoining doorway when a very old, very tiny woman approached. She was dressed in a frilly pink party dress that was several sizes too large and had half a dozen spangly hairclips clinging on to her wispy grey hair, as if a six-year-old girl had got at her with gusto.

What time is it now? the woman asked, eyes boring into Alicia.

Oh, um… Alicia checked her watch, wondering if they were about to be scolded again for their tardiness. It’s—

It’s my birthday today, she announced, her voice as creaky as she looked.

Really? said Alicia. Glancing back at the others. You too?

"I’m not two, silly. I’m eighty-nine today. Eighty-nine. What time is it now?"

Alicia blinked. Twenty past seven.

BoBo says there’s going to be a big chocolate cake and I can eat as much as I want, and we’re going to play games. All my favourite games! BoBo says we can even play hide-and-seek. I love hide-and-seek. I’m very good, haven’t played for ages but. What time is it—?

Biddy! came a booming voice behind them, and they swung back to see a man in his fifties approach. He was the male version of Bethany, tall but lumpier, with his own shock of black hair, slicked back and slightly receding. He was dressed in an oily tuxedo with a gaudy maroon-and-gold cummerbund, and he had a weary look in his eyes, which evaporated the moment he caught sight of Lynette.

Well, hello there, he said, his chapped lips breaking into a smile below his red, bulbous nose. "You must be Veronica’s mysterious book club. She didn’t tell us you were quite so young."

He managed to make that last word sound lewd as his eyes flickered from Lynette to Claire and Queenie then back, lingering on Lynette’s clingy camisole dress.

Bronson Westera’s my name, he announced, shoving a hairy paw towards her. I’m Veronica’s nephew.

That caught Alicia by surprise. He wasn’t at all what she was expecting. Like Claire, she recalled Ronnie raving about her darling nephews that first weekend together. Amidst all the murder and mayhem, the elderly socialite had gushed about how her sweet nephews were back in Sydney minding her cats. This one looked like he’d skin the cats and hand them to Kenji.

Before they could introduce themselves, Biddy was pushing in front of Bronson, fingers aflutter.

What time is it now? she asked, her eyes on Lynette. Is it time for chocolate cake yet?

There was an audible groan from Bronson. Don’t mind Biddy. She’s been away with the fairies since she was born. Haven’t you, Biddy!

He yelled the words in her face, like she was deaf, and the woman smiled serenely nonetheless and said, I’m eighty-nine today.

Yes, yes, come on then. Let’s get you another lolly water, shall we?

He took her by the shoulders and swivelled her like a bar stool towards the patio, then glanced back to them, adding, Lady Muck is by the pool, in case you’re wondering. Surrounded by a gaggle of her gossips.

Then he sniggered, leaving the book club with a mixture of expressions—stunned, confused and deeply unimpressed.

Lady Muck? That’s rather rude, whispered Claire.

And how belittling was he to that other woman? said Queenie.

Come on, said Perry. Let’s go join the gaggle.

Out on the patio they spotted Ronnie in the centre of a group of women, all similarly aged and holding up champagne flutes, screaming out Orgasm! as another lady took their photo. That one had long, woolly white hair, a Thai silk pantsuit, and