Trevor and Gabrielle attend a Walpurgis Night celebration at the estate of billionaire Tucker Underwood. They meet an interesting cast of characters in a classic English whodunit with a supernatural twist.
From Walpurgis Night
We zipped down Interstate Five in her green Triumph convertible, a fixture in the fast lane despite the horn of a BMW Z4 behind us. Gabrielle flipped him off, and he cut over and in front of us, giving us the finger in return as he went. Driving with Gabrielle was always a terrifying experience. For one thing, her ‘78 Spitfire was small and low to the ground. For another, she had, it seemed, taken lessons from Danica Patrick. The engine screamed in protest to her foot on the accelerator. Now, like the BMW had done, Gabrielle gave a prolonged beep to a slow semi ahead of us, swore, then dodged in and out, narrowly missing both the tangerine Honda Element next to us and the front of the Volvo tractor.
“We’re not in a hurry to get there!” I shouted over the roar of the wind.
“Don’t you get a rush out of speeding?”
“Don’t be stuffy.”
“I’m not stuffy. I’m worried about arriving in one piece.”
Next: The Lampshade
Copyright 2015 Ian G. Wilson