Mr Stone's Hunting Lodge

Chapter Four

Mrs Forsythe took an urgent call in Mr Stone's office the following morning and camped there all day while the other guests and Mr Stone went hunting for a moose that had left tracks close to the lodge.

And Mr Slain was right regarding his prediction of Mrs Forsythe's temper.

'That woman is scary,' said Emily after hearing an earsplitting howl of murderous fury. She, Jack and Rachel were at safe distance from the office. They should have been working, but instead were listening to Mrs Forsythe yell at whomever was calling.

'Scary but entertaining,' Jack replied wickedly. 'I'm curious if that's how she got where she is, scaring the bejesus out of people to get what she wants.'

'Seriously, I don't know how anyone could be married to her,' said Rachel. 'No wonder Mr Forsythe is the way he is.'

'I bet he's having a good time at the moment without her,' said Emily.

Mrs Forsythe yelled again. She was so loud that it was clear as day what she was saying. 'THIS IS YOUR FAULT. YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE LET THEM BACK OUT. THIS WAS A DEAL OF A LIFETIME. WHO BOUGHT IT? FIND OUT.'

'A deal gone south, I guess,' said Jack.

'She needs to see a therapist,' said Rachel.

'More like a exorcist.'

The three of them laughed heartedly yet in low tones before a loud crash from inside the office overwhelmingly pricked their senses. Thinking something terrible had happened they ran over and burst through the door. All they did, though, was interrupt Mrs Forsythe.

She was sitting behind Mr Stone's desk, staring manically at her intruders. The remnants of a French glass lamp lay on the floor, far across from where it should have stood.

'GET OUT!' Mrs Forsythe yelled, her eyes twitching wildly. 'I'M HAVING A PRIVATE CONVERSATION!'

'We thought you were in trouble,' stuttered Jack, 'had an accident or something.'

Mrs Forsythe flinched aggressively at them before saying, 'You three will have an accident in a minute. GET OUT!'

Jack, Rachel and Emily made haste and vacated Mrs Forsythe's tempestuous grip.

When Mr Stone returned with the others from their failed but adventurous stalking, Emily pulled him aside and told what had happened, along with more of Mrs Forsythe's activities.

'Where's Mrs Forsythe now?' a worried Mr Stone asked.

'She's back in your office.' Emily then leaned in and whispered, 'She's been drinking. Went down to the cellar at least three times to get a bottle of wine. I wanted to stop her but it's not my place.'

It didn't take long before Mr Stone found out how inebriated Mrs Forsythe had become, for she soon burst out of his office and stumbled like the undead, smashed out of her mind, to the front door, where the others were taking off their coats.

Of course Mr Slain was first to comment, chuckling first. 'Someone started early. Bad call?'

Mrs Forsythe hiccupped. 'Watch your tongue.'

'What's wrong, dear?' Mr Forsythe asked, clearly baffled as to what to do at the situation.

'That big real estate venture of mine? Someone swooped in at the last second and bought the place. All my hard work and sucking up to those asinine, good-for-nothing, witless buffoons for nothing.' She had begun to teeter wildly.

Miss Doncaster grabbed her so she wouldn't fall over, but Mrs Forsythe pushed her away forcibly, almost knocking her down. 'Don't touch me.'

Mr Slain grinned madly as though his birthday had come. 'By the way, would that be the Prince Building?'

With droopy and confused eyes, Mrs Forsythe slowly turned to him. 'How-' she hiccupped again '-how would you know that? Unless-' her besotted eyes tried desperately to convey understanding '-unless it was you.'

Mr Slain breathed through his teeth. 'I'm afraid so, Penelope.'

'Why?'

'Just diversifying.'

'If I had a gun in my hand, I would shoot you dead right now.'

'There's no need for threats,' Mrs Slain chimed in, Mr Stone agreeing.

'Penelope, if you had a gun right now,' said Mr Slain, 'you'd probably accidentally shoot yourself.'

At that instant, Mrs Forsythe took a swing at Mr Slain's face but completely missed. She spun around and crumbled to the floor, quickly passing out.

'My word,' laughed Mr Slain. 'How much did she drink today? She's really in a bad state.'

Mr Stone, with the help of Mr Forsythe, who didn't seem too worried by his wife's fall, got her to her feet and carried her to her room.

'Well that could have been handled differently,' Mrs Slain said to her husband in an irritated tone. 'You couldn't tell her the news with a little grace?'

'Grace?' Mr Slain spurted. 'You are kidding me? That woman shows no grace to anybody. Why should I demonstrate any to her?' He then breathed in heavily, as if refreshed. 'I feel rather alive at the moment. I feel like investing in more new things.' Turning to Miss Doncaster and ogling her, he continued, 'Maybe films. Maybe we should exchange information so we can get together and you could give me a private screening of your talent.'

Mr Hayward was not going to let that go and launched himself at Mr Slain, his face incontrollable. He then took a stupefied but fearful Mr Slain by the collar and slammed him against the wall. 'You are a disgusting man.'

There were no protests from anyone. Not until Mr Stone returned.

'What is going on here?' It was very rare for Mr Stone to be as angry as he was. And he came over and ripped Mr Hayward off of Mr Slain. 'What is going on?'

'This man is crazy,' Mr Slain finally spoke, flustered.

'You have no respect for women. You treat them like toys, something to play with,' said Mr Hayward.

Sobs filled the Great Room and everyone turned to Mrs Slain, who soon dashed off towards her room, covering her sorrow with a hand.

'Look what you did,' a now incensed Mr Slain blurted out. 'You've upset my wife.' He swiftly walked after her.

Forceful, Mr Hayward asked, 'George, when's the next train out? I think it's best we leave.'

'I agree,' said Miss Doncaster.

'Not until tomorrow morning,' Mr Stone replied.

'Can you arrange the tickets?'

Mr Stone was saddened but replied, 'Certainly.'

But nobody was leaving the following day. Another storm rolled in during the night and it was one for the record books with drifts reaching as high as a person.