Steam Bloody Murder

South Carolina is home to Myrtle Beach, old southern plantations, and Remington Montgomery, a reclusive billionaire raised by a stern and controlling mother. When the old woman died unexpectedly, rumors swirled around the cause of her death, and Remington inherited a fortune. A massive painting of the rigid matriarch dominates the entryway of the mansion, and it’s rumored that Remington talks to her when no one is watching. When a group of strangers arrives, seeking refuge from a storm, Remington invites them in. It’ll be fun, and the big, old house gets lonely sometimes. But Mother is not happy. She’s steamed! She sends someone else to do her dirty work, though, just as she did when she was alive.


***


Mitchell buttoned his shirt and made his way to the center railing overlooking the downstairs entry and staircase. “Remington, is that you?” He could see what looked like a crowd gathered near the front entry, casually dropping suitcases and bags. Remington switched on the lighting to the entry hall. The massive painting of the mansion’s stern matriarch, Remington’s mother, dominated the entry. With a slight smile, she stared harshly at the wet and confused group, and gave off an air of superiority and virtue.


“Mitchell, I have some people I’d like you to meet,” Remington shouted back.


“Did you pick up a traveling circus?” Mitchell asked sarcastically. The man Remington had hired to oversee his massive estate would never fail to be blindsided by the unexpected visitors Remington could bring home. “Remington, a word please. What is all of this?” he asked, as he pulled Remington aside. “These people are not stray cats you found on the highway and need to save.”


“Oh, but this could be fun,” Remington remarked, with the exuberance of a young child.


***

Mitchell headed for the grand staircase. He could see two figures in shadow, and he recognized Remington’s familiar silhouette. Who was that with him? He watched as Remington leaned in and cupped a face in shadow. And who have we here? Someone to take into my bedroom… my bed? It is my house, is it not?


Mitchell turned around and headed back to the kitchen where he carefully loaded a tray with sandwiches and pastries. “Who’s the lucky woman getting room service tonight?” he asked, under his breath.


He heard the crashing of a plate and turned around.


“I’m sorry, Mitchell. It slipped.”


“Not to worry. Just another ninety-dollar china plate. It was an original design made specially for this house. But again, not to worry. After this storm is over, I’m sure we will have much more to replace than a china plate,” Mitchell said, sarcasm dripping from every word. The devious man who, oddly, reminded Remington of his own mother, had plans for the grand mansion, and they did not include Remington.