Tyler Colins [Colins - The Connecticut Corpse Caper

Hell was the best word to describe the Moone Connecticut estate. The mansion resembled a demon's lair and could serve as a horror film director's dream setting. Dark and untamed, it promoted an underworld quality. Yet everything on the sweeping grounds also held a sense of harmony, as if the neglect, almost perfect in its precision, had been carefully executed.

A thick arc of dead rosebushes encircling a lopsided fountain of capering cherubs boasted stark, disconcerting symmetry while a large overrun garden, lifeless herb patch, and circular clump of dogwood possessed an oddly unsettling order. Situated on the far eastern corner of the estate was an elaborate stone gazebo enfolded by lifeless ivy twisted like sinewy, arthritic arms. Beyond it stood a perfectly aligned grove of cedars. With its unique aesthetic quality, the land was reminiscent of Futurist artist Giacomo Balla's later figurative works.

Wind speed was zero and precipitation nil, and there was a subtle but pleasant hay-like scent in the air. It was quite warm for the middle of November in the Nutmeg State, but a chill capered up my spine nonetheless. I chuckled. Leave it to Mathilda Reine Moone (born Fonne), my ever enchanting and dotty aunt, to live in a pleasingly gruesome place like this. And leave it to her to devise this crazy one-week extravaganza, which involved several people having to remain on the deceased grande dame's estate for seven days to each inherit two-hundred thousand dollars. Catch: the hundred-and-fifty-year-old house was haunted. A ghost named Fred roamed the upper hallways. Apparently he didn't swing chains, moan or groan, or bang on walls, but he was known to belt out a mean round of Little Brown Jug.

Thomas Saturne, a Manhattan lawyer who'd overseen the reading of the will, had different theories as to who the six-foot-tall spook was: a) a nineteenth-century gun-and-whip wielding outlaw who'd fled north in an attempt to escape legal retribution; b) a lascivious servant who'd pissed off the stableman by playing house with said stableman's wife; c) a hobo who'd snuck into the house and gotten trapped in a passageway or cubbyhole, or; d) a combination thereof.

The drive from Wilmington, North Carolina had been tiring, but then I'd only had about six hours of sleep in the last three days thanks to Tom and Ger, who'd suddenly become stricken with the flu (yeah, and there were Chinook winds in Cuba). Tom and Ger were fellow anchors at a local Wilmington television station where I worked as a meteorologist. The young, loud, self-absorbed sportscasters jocks got away with a lot because they were young, loud, and GQ good-looking.

Yes, I could have, should have, taken a flight, but a scenic drive promised more of an adventure. And truth be known, I wasn't a keen flyer, not after having been on a Miami-bound plane that had been struck by lightning. Referring to that as one of the scariest moments of my life would have been an understatement.

To maintain energy on the trip here, I'd devoured a dozen Belgian chocolate truffles and four Cokes. When I'd stopped to stretch legs in Greenwich, two industrial-size creamy caffeine-infused drinks had put pep in my pace and oomph in my air. Four walkers, one French bulldog, and twin beagles at Greenwich Point Park were probably still determining if the entity they'd seen whiz past was a bird, plane, or person who'd sucked back a Red Bull four-pack.

Had I mentioned if all seven guests managed to stay the course, each one would receive the same amount? If one departed early, his or her share would be divided among the remaining lot. If six people departed, the last person standing would receive the whole shebang. And if everyone left? Select charities would share it all. How fabulously movie-time was that?

Speaking of movie-time, squatted on opposite ends of a long mold-flecked balcony were two chubby gargoyles. Even fifty yards back from the set-like faade you could see a ragged crack running the length of the leering face on the right. The one on the left appeared bored, like he was weary of sitting there for too many decades, and yet a hint of devilry showed in the cat-like eyes, as if he was waiting for the right moment to embark on mischief.

Hey Floyd, Cat's Eyes said with an impish grin, after all these years, my delivery's finally cracked you up.

It's not your delivery, Marv, it's your stony, butt-ugly face. Guffaw, guffaw.

Prime fodder for Two on a Guillotine meets Comedy Central or what? Whadya think boys? Jill Fonne weather announcer cum comedy writer?

The twins responded with baleful gazes.

Okay, no quitting the day job.

Civil dusk was about an hour away and the bright setting sun was an odd Mirabelle-plum yellow. I had to squint as the Chrysler Sebring glided down the remainder of a wide, winding driveway lined with desiccated shrubs, straggly weeping willows and crisp vivid autumn leaves. At the end rested that huge house in all its astonishing glory: a multi-winged neo-Gothic number that would send shivers of gleeful anticipation up and down the spines of paranormal seekers. All that was missing was pea-soup-thick fog.

A Bruno Mars song announced a call was coming through on my Smartphone as I drew up alongside a two-tone 1958 Bentley SI. Thomas Saturne's, no doubt. Who else would drive a car like that? Not Mathilda Reine, deceased owner of the magnificent manse. She'd always been into sporty cars and had owned a few in her day, including a 308 GTsi Ferrari and a Jaguar XKR. Said she liked her cars like her men: long and fast. Mathilda Reine had never been one to mince words.

You're late, as always. We had lunch eons ago to which you were expected and we also finished tea. Where the frig are you?

It's great to be loved and missed. Be there in two my little Bundt cake. Kiss, kiss.

My beau Adwin sounded pissed. He made it a habit to perpetually watch his language because he worked with people who cursed and swore too much; he claimed it made his naturally straight hair curl up like that of a Bichon Frise. The guy was everything you'd presume a pastry chef to be (introspective and creative and committed) and much like you'd expect a hair stylist to be (leaning toward the fey). But having been raised by four older sisters and two aunts could promote the feminine in anyone.

Not overly tall, but Ichabod-Crane skinny, it was hard to believe the guy could inhale a concrete-block sized chunk of wild-blueberry cheesecake and three caramel-cashew brownies in one sitting. Adwin was so not my type, but the two of us had been together two years. Everyone had said it wouldn't last more than three weeks, which went to prove that people often did not know what they were talking about.

I shoved the paisley-skinned Smartphone into a glove compartment jammed with crumpled M&M wrappers, tissue packs, and a large can of liquid carbonated energy. The wireless contraption had spent enough time glued to my ears and thumbs over the last few days and I was tired of incessant talking and texting, catering to producers' and sponsors' egos, and working what felt like 24/7. And maybe I was also a little weary of being a meteorologist or weathergirl as the jock-guys would snicker. Don't get me wrong. Despite the apathy that had kicked in recently, I still very much liked the work, although the hours could occasionally prove tough. Even if I was a morning person, three a.m. was a bit