Eye of the moon, p.1
Eye of the Moon, page 1
EYE OF THE MOON
A Novel
Ivan Obolensky
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR EYE OF THE MOON
WINNER Gold Medalist "Fiction: Intrigue" in the Readers' Favorite International Book Awards
WINNER Silver Medalist/Second Place “Mystery/Thriller/Suspense/Horror” in the Feathered Quill Book Awards
WINNER Best First Book "Fiction" in the IndieReader Discovery Awards
FINALIST "Paranormal" and "Best Cover Design: Fiction" in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards
“Obolensky conjures a remarkably imaginative tale, seamlessly juxtaposing the quotidian and the magical in a way that renders the latter mesmerizingly plausible… Alice’s complex character powerfully emerges as the plot’s tonal center, a bewitching amalgam of moral strength, intellectual vitality, and a lust for life…. ingeniously constructed… an engrossing tale of mystery and magic.” -Kirkus Reviews
“Eye of the Moon throws you into the middle of the story, in a perfect way. It’s gripping, intense, thorough. Everything I wanted in a thriller, and then some.…” -Nick Thacker, USA Today bestselling author, The Enigma Strain
“… Eye of the Moon by Ivan Obolensky is a thrillingly eerie mystery novel with a Gothic ambiance and supernatural elements seeping through the storyline… a fabulously spine-chilling plot …” - Susan Sewell for Readers’ Favorite, 5 stars
“… EYE OF THE MOON is sumptuous in its description of white-tie dinner parties and sexual tensions with baronesses, and sharp in its maneuvering of several secret puzzles at once…. The mysteries are finely woven together and readers must think fast on their feet… a gothic mystery of the finest order, Eyes Wide Shut meets Agatha Christie.” -IndieReader, 4.7 stars, IR approved
“.… The surprising revelations and apparent coincidences come fast and furiously as the novel approaches its climax, but the groundwork was carefully laid for this intricate plot structure.”
-Bradley A. Scott of Foreword Reviews, 4 stars Clarion rating
“… By the page 30, or so, I was well ensnared by Obolensky’s captivating spiderweb. Richly nuanced, complex, highly readable, this yarn combines mystery, implied horror, the patrician class seen through a glass darkly, romance, and a wholly acerbic view of the inherent goodness (or evil) of man (and woman). Eye of the Moon is anything but an author’s ‘first work…. A stellar, highly auspicious opening to a successful career.” -Hugo N. Gerstl, international bestselling author of Scribe
“As a reader, it felt as if this novel had been exclusively produced just for me… there’s enough humour, mystery, suspense, romance and adventure to satisfy even the most jaded of appetites.… a gothic classic… a grand novel worthy of admiration and an extensive audience.” - Carl Delprat, Compulsive Reader
“Ivan Obolensky’s Eye of the Moon is a house party mystery much in the style of Agatha Christie—without the body…. Readers have time to get to know the characters and the lifestyle they’ll do so much to protect. It’s like having brandy and a cigar in the library with Lord Peter Wimsey.” -BlueInk Review
“Eye of the Moon is a haunting tale of family secrets and gothic dread. The author paints a story of an aristocratic house party in which not all of the guests are of this world…. Eye of the Moon evokes the drama of Dynasty with the atmosphere of Manderley.” -Jennifer Whitman, Professional Bookseller, Barnes & Noble
“Eye of the Moon is a rare and authentic glimpse inside the hidden world of America’s upper class—that small and exclusive society of the super-rich and powerful… Plan to stay up late. Once you get caught up in this extraordinary drama you’ll find it hard to put it down. In ambiance it rivals Downton Abbey, but the plot tells a far more intense and shocking story.” -Tom Hyman, author of Seven Days to Petrograd and Jupiter’s Daughter
"A deftly crafted and simply riveting gothic mystery by a master of the genre, Ivan Obolensky's 'Eye of the Moon' is especially and unreservedly recommended for community library Mystery/Suspense collections." -Midwest Book Review, Small Press Bookwatch
Copyright © 2017 by Ivan Obolensky
Cover and internal design © 2017 by Smith-Obolensky Media.
Cover and design by Turtleshell Press, all images used with permission.
Smith-Obolensky Media and the Smith-Obolensky Media logo are service marks of Smith-Obolensky Media. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Smith-Obolensky Media.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Smith-Obolensky Media, DBA of Dynamic Doingness, Inc.
1146 N. Central Ave. #316, Glendale, California 91202
(818) 660-6852
www.smithobolenskymedia.com
ISBNs:
978-1-947780-04-0 MOBI
978-1-947780-03-3 EPUB
978-1-947780-05-7 PDF
978-1-947780-07-1 HTML
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017912304
Publication date: February 6, 2018
To Mary Jo, who started me writing.
Note to the reader:
This is a work of fiction. It is a product of my imagination. As with most stories, it is anchored in some form of reality. Rhinebeck existed. I visited only for a few vacations during my childhood, but its influence on my life was much greater than the time I spent there would seem to indicate.
The characters in this novel are not real, although some of the names are of people who lived. Most of them have passed away. None of them said or did the things I have written other than on the most conventional level.
The novel takes place in the period of the 1970s before there were cell phones and computers were in their infancy.
This work was written with only one purpose in mind: to delight the reader. If it does so, then I will have achieved what I set out to do. It is, after all, a story, and I like good stories. Most people do. I hope you will find it as delightful to read as it was to write.
Chapter 1
Rain was threatening as I looked out my window on that Wednesday morning in the spring of 1977. I was anticipating breakfast in my room at the St. Regis in New York when there was a knock at the door. I answered in my bathrobe, expecting a waiter with a trolley, but in walked Johnny Dodge instead.
“Oh, no,” I groaned.
Johnny was just over thirty. His blond hair was worn long, but he looked slim and fit in a dark pinstripe from whose breast pocket peeked a dark-blue handkerchief with small white polka dots that matched his tie. He wore a cream-colored shirt with french cuffs that were held in place by small gold Cartier cufflinks. I knew the cufflinks were from Cartier because I had given them to him several years ago.
He and I were practically brothers. We had grown up together. My parents were good friends with his parents, but mine were often traveling and out of the country. All concerned thought that such a nomadic lifestyle was ultimately not in my best interest and that I take up permanent residence at the Dodges’. There had been plenty of space in their Fifth Avenue apartment on the fourteenth floor overlooking Central Park. I slept in the same room as Johnny and went to the same schools. I was considered a semi-Dodge, which Johnny would often point out carried certain privileges but, just as importantly, carried certain asymmetric obligations that demanded my immediate involvement, even now, years later.
Now, I wanted to shut the door, but I didn’t. I knew that he would only keep knocking or ambush me when I attempted to leave.
“And a nice hello to you, too, Percy,” said Johnny. “Now, I know you’re waiting for breakfast. Not to worry, it’ll be up in a minute. I sent the order back and added some things because I’m joining you. We have a lot to discuss, and there’s a car waiting downstairs, but we’ll get to that in due course.”
“We’re going somewhere? Only to the airport to catch my afternoon flight back to California.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” He smiled at me, gave me a light slap on my shoulder by way of a hello, and then began rubbing his hands in anticipation as he looked around. “Nice room,” he said, changing the subject.
Johnny could be so infuriating. He knew just what to say and what to do to get me to go along with his schemes. He always took advantage of my sense of obligation to him and his family, and I was sure this time was no exception.
“Johnny, I don’t mean to pry, but how exactly did you manage to know I was here?”
“The concierge. He’s on the Dodge family payroll, as if you didn’t know, but I’m very glad he is, and you should be too.”
“Glad?”
“Yes, very glad. I’m saving your bacon.”
“Oh God.”
I knew right then the situation was worse than usual. The magnitude of the difficulty Johnny was involved in was in direct proportion to how much he thought someone else was at fault.
“None of this ‘oh God.’ You think that I have a big problem because I’m blaming you. Rest assured, you have a problem too. Think back to the last time you were up at Rhinebeck.”
Rhinebeck was the name of the town in Dutchess County where the Dodges’ hundred-acre estate was located, situated on a high bluff overlooking the Hudson River. Johnny and I called the estate Rhinebeck. We would often visit during school vacations, and in later years, it became a refuge on weekends.
Johnny took off his jacket and laid it on the bed before sitting down in one the chairs facing the window and waited for my response.
“The last time I was at Rhinebeck was with you quite a few years ago. Frankly, my memory’s a bit hazy.”
“Of course it’s a bit hazy. You were in an alcoholic stupor for much of the time, and I must admit, so was I, but that’s beside the point. Do you remember anything about you and me drinking a couple of bottles of Château Lafite?”
Rhinebeck did have an outstanding wine cellar into which Johnny and I often descended when no one was looking.
“Lafite, yes, they were very good, if memory serves. In fact, they were positively outstanding. I remember your delight when you discovered those two bottles hidden in the back of the cellar. We consumed both, one after the other, and you kept repeating that the wine was fit for the gods.”
“Well, that may have been the case, but do you remember the vintage? Think carefully.”
I thought for a moment and said, “Unfortunately not, but I do recall you saying that we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, should our pilfering be discovered.”
“Too bad you don’t remember the year because I don’t either, and I’m afraid that the bridge may now be before us. Let me explain. The parents have enjoyed quite a number of years of wedded bliss, as you know, and have an important anniversary coming up. They decided to celebrate the occasion with an intimate dinner for a select number of houseguests this weekend. You’re invited, by the way. I managed to mention to them that you might feel slighted if you weren’t, since you were in town and are family — or semi-family, at the least.”
Johnny reached into his breast pocket and placed a small envelope made from thick cream-colored paper on a side table. I recognized the writing of Mrs. Dodge’s secretary. “Your personal invite, as I know how you get when I simply say you’re invited.”
Before I could protest, the bell bonged, and Johnny jumped up to open the door. Two breakfast carts were wheeled in, and what looked like a veritable feast was set up in short order. The problem must be impressive. Johnny was pulling out all the stops.
Johnny thanked the waiters and passed them a couple of bills. “Keep the change,” he said and hustled them out the door.
I grabbed a piece of toast and a cup of black coffee and looked over my eggs Benedict. “Okay, Johnny, you have me seriously worried. What gives?”
“Ah yes, I’ll be getting to that. But first, let’s dig in.”
“Johnny!”
“Okay, okay, but I’m starving.”
He poured himself a cup of coffee and grabbed a piece of toast with bacon, which he munched on between sentences. I ate and listened.
“A number of years ago the parents decided to lay away a couple of bottles of Château Lafite 1959 to be opened on a very special anniversary. Knowing how outstanding this wine was, they hid them in the back of the cellar at Rhinebeck. It was their secret, but last week I overheard them talking about their little stash. Well, imagine my horror when I found out that those bottles were not kept under lock and key in New York, as they should have been, but hidden in plain sight where they could be discovered. They expect to drink what has been considered one of the finest vintages of Château Lafite ever created this Saturday night at dinner. I can barely conjure up in my mind the surprise and outrage they’ll feel when they find out that those two bottles are missing — consumed some time ago by none other than you and me.”
“I see. But did we really drink them? Perhaps we didn’t, and they’re still there.”
“Too true, and therein lies the problem. We must be certain or come up with a plan to replace them.”
“To replace them might not be too difficult,” I said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t there cases of Lafite in that cellar?”
“Indeed, there are, but not ’59s, or even ’61s, I assure you. Bottles of those years are very rare. The parents even wrote little love notes to each other on the labels. I’ve been almost sick with worry thinking that we might have gotten our hands on them and that our theft is about to become very public knowledge — this week of all weeks.”
“Bad week?”
“Horrendous.” Johnny stood up and began to pace. He was definitely bothered. “I’ve been carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders for the last few days. The monthly trading report generates on Friday, and Father will be getting a copy for his review over the weekend. This will not make for a happy moment. Sometimes I hate that we have a family business.”
“Bad report?”
“Awful. I really screwed up. A trade leg got unwound at the wrong time, really pumping up my losses for the month. He’s aware of some of them, but not last night’s attempted arbitrage, which really went south. He’ll not be in a good mood after he gets the report. Add to that the missing wine, which they’ve been looking forward to for years, and my promising career could be flushed down the toilet.”
Johnny made his way over to the window. He parted a curtain and looked out as if to distract himself. I knew from experience we were coming to the crux of the matter.
“And then there’s the matter of Brunhilde,” he whispered.
“Brunhilde?”
“Yes, Brunhilde. Bruni for short.”
He turned away from the window and sat back down in his chair. He sighed and began to nibble nervously on more bacon. I let him take his time. At last, he stopped and looked at me.
“To add to my woes, Mother wants grandchildren and is eager to see me marry. She’s put forward Brunhilde as a possible match. Not that she can force me. It’s the twentieth century, after all, but she’s starting to ratchet up the pressure as only mothers can. The whole subject is starting to get contentious between us. I know she’ll lose patience completely if this latest gambit of hers should fall apart. To give you an idea of what’s involved: Brunhilde’s parents are Baron and Baroness von Hofmanstal. Very suitable and very rich. Mother has invited the three to Rhinebeck as houseguests for the special dinner and a look-around this weekend.
“Brunhilde, according to Mother, is extraordinary and able to stop traffic, which is the good news, and of which I have no doubt. The bad news is the mere thought of settling down with anyone makes me very nervous. I had a tarot card reading once, to say nothing of several other attempts at divining my marital future, and all have said the same thing with complete certainty: don’t. One went so far as to say that a planetary disturbance of cataclysmic proportions might result and pleaded with me on hands and knees to never marry. I know you think that’s a bit overly dramatic, but the incident affected me greatly, and I have, to date, avoided any such entanglements, with happy results.
“Besides, I fall in love far too easily, and that’s always been my problem. I see no indication that my character has changed, or will any time soon, so I’d rather forego matrimony at all costs. My intention is to carry forward with my resolve, but I don’t know if I can withstand a beautiful girl, my mother’s machinations, and assured future great wealth for any extended period — hence, our conversation.”
“Why, Johnny, that’s quite a statement. I’m impressed with your astute self-observation. You never cease to amaze me.”
I drank more coffee. The breakfast was having its effect, and the fact that Johnny was being so candid had softened my determination to resist at all costs accompanying him up the Hudson to Rhinebeck. The house’s stately beauty cast a soft focus over much of my memory, but I knew that interspersed among the long interludes of tranquility and happiness were disturbing periods of disquiet, and more than one instance of terror that prevented me from simply acquiescing.
“Yes, even I can occasionally be aware of my own shortcomings. But there’s once again more to it. I may have run into Brunhilde before, and meeting her again might prove to be extremely awkward.”
“Oh yes?”
“Oh yes, indeed. I’m pretty sure I’ve met her. I mean, how many Brunhildes does one happen to run into who have black hair and electric-blue eyes and are called von-something? I never did get this woman’s last name fully. I’d really like to forget that meeting. I place the blame squarely on that damn Robert the Bruce.”
