The Puzzler's Mansion (3 page)

Winston read the invitation three times before saying to Mr. Penrose, “You want me to go to a party with you? A party that lasts all
weekend
?”

Mr. Penrose said, “Normally these events are restricted to invitees only, but you are in luck. For some reason, he's decided to let guests bring their children along. I have no children, so instead I am offering this to you. I think you would find Richard's weekend gatherings to be a lot of fun. And you look like you could use some fun right about now.”

“Who is this guy?”

Penrose said, “You've never heard of Richard Overton?”

Winston shook his head.

“He's a musician. He plays the piano,” Mr. Penrose said.

“Oh,” said Winston. “Is he good?”

Penrose smiled. Winston had the feeling he had just asked a stupid question. “Let me give you a CD,” Penrose said. “Take it home and listen to it. You can judge for yourself.”

Winston thought, The answer to the question is yes. Richard Overton is a good piano player. But he said, “Okay, sure.”

Penrose had a small shelf dedicated to old music. He moved his finger along this, searching, and came up with a particular compact disc.

“Oh, hey,” said Winston. “I don't want to take something you're supposed to sell.”

Penrose waved a hand. “I don't sell much music, and I have numerous copies of this album. It's my gift to you. I'm sure you'll like it. But whether you like it or not, I
know
you'll enjoy a weekend at Richard's estate.”

“His . . . estate?” Winston was starting to get intrigued.

Penrose nodded. “He has a large, beautiful house a couple of hours upstate. And every once in a while, he invites a number of his friends to visit, and he challenges us with puzzles and games that he has created.”

“What kind of puzzles?” Winston asked.

“Oh, they're different every time,” Penrose said. “My friend Richard is a clever fellow. I think the two of you would get along very well.”

Winston looked at the CD. It seemed no different than the handful of classical albums his parents owned. The cover showed a close-up of a pair of hands hovering over a piano keyboard, fingers arched as if about to play something complicated and dramatic.

“How do you know this guy?” he asked.

“My wife was a musician,” Penrose said.

“Your wife?”

“She died some years ago.”

“Oh,” Winston said. He didn't know Mr. Penrose had been married.

“They performed a series of concerts together. This was quite a
while back, you understand. In fact, it's probably close to fifty years now. My goodness.” Penrose wore a faint and dreamy smile, as if he could still hear the music. “Anyway,” he said, “I stayed friendly with Richard even after Rebecca passed away. He knows I've always enjoyed his games.” He became more clear-eyed and said, “So will you, Winston, I guarantee it. Ask your parents if you can go. If they have any questions, they can call me.”

The whole idea that he might try to walk away from puzzles—even for a day—suddenly seemed ridiculous. A weekend of puzzly games at some famous person's mansion? How could Winston not jump at this?

“Okay. I'll go ask them right now.” He thanked his friend for the invitation.

THE MORE WINSTON
thought about Penrose's offer, the more excited he got. The entire bicycle ride home, he rehearsed what he was going to say to his parents. Would they let him go to a weekend-long puzzle party so soon after he'd gotten in trouble for solving puzzles? He wasn't sure.

Well, he had to go. He would promise them anything.

He burst into the house, calling out for his parents before the door had shut behind him. “Shhh!” said Katie, from the living room. She was playing a video game with two of her friends, the three of them concentrating on the television screen, where cartoony race cars puttered about. “Dad's working,” Katie said. “And Mom's out.”

“He's working?” Winston asked. “On a Saturday?” Katie didn't respond, so he knocked on his father's office door and stuck his head in. He was dismissed with a stern look and a wave of the hand. His father was pacing and talking on the phone, clearly in the middle of some urgent problem. Winston closed the door, sighing.

The excitement of Penrose's invitation was still with him, and
now it had nowhere to go. Winston thought about calling Mal or Jake, and was just about to pick up the phone when he remembered his father was using it. Perfect. He really needed his own cell phone one of these days.

Winston didn't want to watch his sister play video games, so he headed up to his room. He had begun the day not knowing what to do with himself, and now he was right back where he'd started, only this time with a whopper of a story that he couldn't wait to share. Sighing, he grabbed a puzzle magazine. He had said he would back away from puzzles for a while, but this was an emergency. He took a pencil from his desk, threw himself onto his bed, and looked for something he hadn't solved yet.

Halfway through the puzzle, he remembered the CD from Mr. Penrose. He found it and looked at the case. It was Richard Overton and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra playing Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 3. Winston wondered why classical composers didn't use proper song titles. It was always Symphony No. 5, followed by Symphony No. 6, which was followed a few years later by, you guessed it, Symphony No. 7. Would it have killed them to come up with some catchier names?

In any event, he liked the name Rachmaninoff. He said it aloud, enjoying the rhythm of it. It sounded like a rubber ball bouncing off
the wall, onto the ground, and back into his hand.

Winston popped the disc into his computer, turned up the speakers, and went back to his puzzle. Music filled the room—a piano, backed up by a roomful of strings. It was pleasant enough, and sort of interesting to know that the guy playing the piano was a friend of his friend and someone he might meet soon. But if Penrose thought that Winston would be blown away by the music, then Penrose was going to be disappointed. Winston doubted he would listen to this a second time.

Still, it wasn't bad. Winston let the music play while he continued solving.

A few minutes later, he looked up from his puzzle again. The music had changed. It had become more dramatic. The strings were still there, hovering in the background, but now the music was all about the piano. Could this really be one man, playing a single piano? No. Not unless he had five hands.

Winston examined the case again. The liner notes included a list of all the musicians. There was only one piano player. Richard Overton. It seemed impossible, but it was true. And even as Winston accepted this, the music amped up yet again, into impossible new heights. Winston found himself wishing he was watching this on television, so he could see this man at work. “Okay, I'm impressed,” he said out loud, as if apologizing to Mr. Penrose.

This Overton guy had to be among the greatest musicians ever. If his puzzles and games were half as good as his piano playing, Winston wanted very much to go and see what they were about.

Dinnertime. His father was in a better mood now that the problem at work had been solved. He discussed it with Winston's mom as they served themselves from various dishes on the table. Winston cut into
his chicken and waited for a chance to share his news. His blood was pumping with excitement, but he wasn't about to blow this by interrupting his parents.

Winston wondered what sort of games Richard Overton played up there. Would they all have something to do with music? If so, Winston would be sunk. He'd never thought about learning an instrument. He was always buried too deep inside a puzzle book to consider it.

He wondered what it would be like to be able to play the piano. Not like Richard Overton—Winston's imagination had its limits—but well enough to sit down and move his fingers over the keys and hear a melody fill the room. For a moment he could see himself doing it.

But, no. Learning the piano would take hours of hard work. Winston would put off practice because he'd bought a new puzzle book and wanted to start solving, or because he had a new puzzle idea and wanted to put it to paper. Piano would take a backseat to puzzles . . . just like everything else. The thought flashed through his brain that maybe his father was right—that he spent too much time in Puzzle Land.

Well, was that so bad? He really liked solving puzzles. It would kill him to stop. In fact, Winston wondered if it was even
possible
to stop. He'd been doing it for so long that sometimes it felt like the puzzle-solving part of his brain was a separate creature living inside him, one that did nothing but play with words. Just the other day, in the car with his mom, they'd passed a billboard showing an airplane, which for some reason was flying over Mars. Winston had laughed—not at the absurdity of it, but at the unintended wordplay. The two images in the picture were a
planet
and a
plane
: if you took the last letter off the first thing, you got the second. He explained this to his mother, and she gave him a look he was long used to:
I love you, but I sure don't understand you.

And then that evening—Winston grimaced to remember—he rushed through his homework so that he could create more puzzles like the one he had spotted on the billboard.

*   *   *

It had been fun presenting the puzzle to his friends that weekend, but his homework had come back spattered with red ink. He had gotten several obvious things wrong. His teacher had written,
I know you know this! Sloppy!
And she had added a frowny face, which was pretty embarrassing.

So maybe he thought about puzzles too much. Maybe. But he still wanted to go to Richard Overton's house.

“And what did you guys do today?” his father asked, as he did almost every day at dinner.

This was the moment. “I visited Mr. Penrose for a while,” Winston said. “We played chess.”

“Who won?” asked his mother.

“He creamed me,” Winston admitted. “But then he got an invitation to a friend's house, and he invited me to go along.”

His father looked up from his plate. “You went to Mr. Penrose's friend's house? Where did he live?”

“No, no,” Winston corrected. “He only got the invitation today. The party isn't for a couple of weeks. Mr. Penrose has a friend who invites people to his . . .” Winston swallowed back the word
mansion
. “To his house, to play all kinds of puzzle games. Mr. Penrose said I could come along for the weekend. If I wanted.”