Chapter #18The Copy-Part 1 by: Seuzz   The hard rap at the bedroom door tells you who it is even before you open it, and Frank pushes through almost before you get the handle turned. "We got a problem," he says.
"We've had nothing but problems," you retort. "You find that leopard yet? Where's Joe?"
"Check the mirror," he snaps. "That's the problem. Rosalie called. Dad's taken a turn for the worse."
"Fuck," you mutter.
"Yeah. We were out by the ha-ha when she called. Joe took off."
You throttle the urge to curse again. "We need him here, Frank. We're supposed to be twins, and I can't play both parts myself." Out of the corner of your eye you glimpse the scene in the mirror over the vanity: Frank, talking to his brother, Joe, whom you are looking like at the moment.
"Dad needs him there," Frank says, and pokes you hard in the chest. "So you need to play both Roger and Thomas this evening."
"Frank! Maybe Joe could pull it off with that astral twin of his, but--"
"Well, he might be able to get back here in time for the will reading."
Your eyes narrow. "Might?"
Frank sighs. "But probably not. If he could, he'd have driven back up the moment he drove off."
You swear again and stare up at the ceiling. "Joe!" you shout. "You better not be up in the attic laughing at us!"
"Shut up, Roger. And Thomas," Frank adds in a growl. "And keep 'em straight, because you have to be both of them, at least until midnight."
"How?"
Frank puts his hands to his hips. "We've already established there are two Tischebourne twins in the house, because Mrs. Kenealy has seen you and Joe together. Just be one of them in one room, then go be the other in another room, until Joe gets back." You glare at him, and he jabs you again. "Make it work, Will. Because there's two ways to make it work, and you don't want us doing it the other way."
His retort mystifies you, but you don't press it.
* * * * *
Mrs. Kenealy frowns at you over the soup. "Where's your brother got to, Thomas?"
"I'm Roger," you reply, and slurp some broth from your spoon.
"Then where's your brother got to, Roger?" She looks at the empty spot across from you, which you've been ignoring so as not to call attention to it.
"If we're lucky, maybe you murdered him," says the girl at your elbow archly. "You not being his keeper, I mean."
You glare at her. Mary Reese-Greebling, my ass, you think to yourself. No one named "Reese-Greebling" has any business looking like a Cossack princess. "A ravishing Cossack princess," you'd have thought to yourself earlier in the evening, before she'd opened her mouth for the first of what would turn into a volley of insults at you. "And where'd your sister get off to?"
"I'll go look for her," Mary says, and sweeps to her feet.
John Reilly, who's seated at Mrs. Kenealy's elbow, shoots you a meaningful look. "And I'll look for, uh, Thomas," you say, getting up as well. You and Mary make an awkward pas a deux before you brush past each other. She heads for the atrium; you stride into the kitchen.
The two chefs and the second footman watch curiously as you circle the vast stovetop in the center, pulling off your green tie and substituting the blue one before passing smoothly back into the dining room. "Hello all, sorry I'm late. Mr. Reilly," you nod at him. Mr. Reilly, because you're not supposed to know Mrs. Kenealy's lawyer. "Where's, uh, Roger?" you ask as you sit opposite the seat you'd been in.
"Looking for you," says Mrs. Kenealy, and turns to stare at the door you've just come through.
"I see Mary's late again," Samantha Reese-Greebling says as she strides in from the atrium. Like her twin sister, she's in a peacock-blue satin cocktail dress. In fact, you have to look closely at the necklace to tell them apart. "Hello Roger," she says brusquely as she sits by your side.
"Thomas."
"Like I care."
* * * * *
"'Tis the voice of the Lobster," Reilly says with a forced laugh, and his normally ruddy face is a pallid color. He avoids your eye as the distant, eerie cry fades.
"Lobster, really," Mrs. Kenealy snorts. She grips her cane as she drops onto the settee in one of the five sitting rooms on the lower floor. "It sounded like a wild cat."
"There aren't any leopards in Connecticut, Elizabeth," Reilly says, and repeats the same forced laugh.
"Who said anything about a leopard? My, aren't you children getting along famously," she adds as she turns to you and Mary.
You're sitting stiffly on the edge of the sofa opposite, with Mary's arm tightly wrapped in yours. It's a remarkable shift in attitude. You'd met her coming out of a bedroom after dinner, and she'd done a double take at you; and though you can't be sure, you have the distinct impression that she'd stuck out a foot and tripped you as you'd passed. With a cooing cry she'd helped you up, and helped you all the way downstairs, babbling all the way about the dangers that attend "streptisias of the ankle." And for the last ten minutes she's been giggling over everything you've said.
And like you, she's also changed her clothes.
"I suppose we should think about that reading," Mrs. Kenealy says after an awkward pause.
"Your brother was quite insistent that it be done at midnight," Reilly says.
Mrs. Kenealy snorts. "Oh, George and his fascination with the occult. If you children--either of you, I mean--either of you pair--" She sighs and rubs her eyes. "John, why does it have to be twins?"
"It was one of the conditions."
"But why? They're making me dizzy."
"I should go look for Thomas," you say.
"I thought you were Thomas." Mrs. Kenealy gives you a sharp look, and you marvel that she can keep track of your dual aliases when you can't.
"No, I'm Roger. I'll go look for Thomas."
You stumble as you rise, for Mary has her foot around your ankle again. "I'll go with you. Six eyes are better than four," she giggles, and breathes on your glasses.
"Maybe you should look for Samantha."
"I am Samantha."
"I thought you were Mary," you and Mrs. Kenealy say in unison. Reilly blinks and shakes his head.
"Then you go look for Mary," you say.
"Come with me? Six eyes are better than two."
"I have to find Ro-- Thomas." You scuttle from the room. In the kitchen you make another circuit and change of tie. The two cooks--now washing up--exchange a glance.
* * * * *
Nine thirty. Two and a half hours for Joe to show back up again.
You've been hiding in the bedroom, hoping that an absence of Tischebournes will be less weird than the singletons who've been popping in and out all evening, but now you sense it's time to make another appearance.
One of the Reese-Greebling sisters whirls as you step into the hallway. "And what hell hole did you pop out of, you cuckoo," she demands in a ragged voice.
"My bedroom," you retort, and do a slight double take at the leather vest she's wearing. "Nursing my ankle so the streptisias doesn't take hold."
"The what?"
"Which one are you?"
"Samantha."
"My ankle. You remember."
"I'm trying to forget. Well, what are you loitering there for?"
"What are you loitering for? And what've you got behind your back?" She's got her hands behind her.
"Nothing, and I'm not loitering. See?" She edges away, keeping her front toward you, and trots briskly backwards down the hall. Only at the end does she turn, and you catch a glimpse of--
A bow and arrow?  You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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